


All That We Are

by SilverThunder



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 84,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverThunder/pseuds/SilverThunder
Summary: There wasn't any real need to find out whether or not they were soulmates if they were both sure of the answer. But Yata's answer was different from Fushimi's, and that was just another of the dividing points they couldn't reconcile.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you to my wonderful betas, [Marudyne](http://dropletons.tumblr.com/) and [Candylit](http://candylit.tumblr.com/) for their hard work and for not giving up on me over the course of writing this fic! You guys rock!
> 
> A large part of this fic takes place behind the scenes of certain canon events. Whenever it's material outside of the anime (season one, Missing Kings, and Return of Kings), I'll try to provide notes stating which materials are referenced. The fic should still stand decently without reading those things, but certain parts will make more sense in context.
> 
> This chapter contains references to things that happen in Lost Small World (novel and manga), set during the time when Fushimi and Yata were in middle school. Also contains a passing reference to underage students having sex.

At an early age, Yata Misaki had no doubt of his place in life.

Actually, he wasn’t ‘Yata’ when he had that unwavering confidence. The early part of it started when he was old enough to question his father's lack of presence in his life – and to understand that he hadn't been a good guy. That moment was when he realized that he and his mother only had each other. It was them against the world, and he couldn’t let her down.

"You'll do fine, you know," his mother used to tell him, whenever he'd enter a new situation, and she'd smile at him with so much pride. "You're my son, after all."

He did do fine, because he was strong. He was his mother's son, so how could he not be?

Yata-san came into the picture, and then Minoru, and suddenly that position became questionable. ‘His mother's son’. Was he really? Minoru was the son with her real husband, and he was on the outside. So how could he be?

That comfortable confidence was gone. He felt adrift, out of place – unidentifiable, even. If he wasn't his mother's son, who was he?

In his first year of middle school, he learned about the soulmate system, and things started to make sense again. He was somebody's soulmate in the end; everyone was. And in the same year, he met Fushimi Saruhiko.

It really was fate – he was sure of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Fushimi Saruhiko learned about soulmates early in his life.

It was sooner than the school system would’ve preferred, but it couldn't be helped – the marks were too difficult to conceal entirely. Even though the woman who’d birthed him was a stranger he only saw on occasion, he was observant and his memory was good, and it was hard not to notice a large pair of black and white dice displayed on her right cheek, just across the cheekbone.

It was mirrored exactly on the man's left cheek, no mars or imperfections. A flawlessly crafted pair that could only have come from a true soulmate match.

He didn't remember asking about it. After all, it was pointless to ask that man anything, and the woman didn't have the time or patience for his questions. But he remembered them speaking together, her with cold tones and he with gleeful, and those certain words stuck in his memory.

"We're really a perfect combination, aren't we, Kisa-san? After all, there’s proof."

It wasn't a lie, he reasoned. The soulmate system was precise and cruel, just like that man. It was no wonder it could be used so ruthlessly.

Not that it mattered, because he’d already learned that caring was pointless. He wouldn't have a soulmate anyway, if he didn't care about anyone.

In middle school, he met Yata Misaki, and the flaw in his thinking became clear.

He wouldn't notice it for a while yet, though.

 

* * *

 

 

Early in their friendship, Yata had been keen to try and eat with Fushimi on the roof of their school. He found out pretty quick that it wasn't nearly as simple as it seemed in fiction; the door to the roof was locked, for one thing, and Fushimi didn't seem very interested in lock-picking.

"It's pointless," he'd said flatly.

"You could do it, though, couldn't you?" It was technically a question, but Yata threw it out there with confidence. He was pretty sure Fushimi could do anything. "Right, Fushimi?"

"If I had to." Fushimi clicked his tongue impatiently. "Why waste the effort? It'll be cold."

They ate at their desks in the classroom instead – or rather, at Fushimi's desk. Yata turned in his seat and straddled the back of his chair, his boxed lunch in front of him and Fushimi's just beyond. Fushimi decisively and methodically picked the bits of vegetable from his purchased meal, and Yata obligingly took and ate them without even thinking. It was routine now.

The window near them had been opened, and a very faint breeze cracked through the stuffiness of the room. It was only a small relief from the heat, and the feeling of being stifled in that boring class lingered like a bad smell that just wouldn’t wash away with the fresh air.

Yata was restless; he couldn’t help it. He finished his lunch in a hurry, pushing the box aside and resting his chin on his hand, idly watching as Fushimi slowly picked at his food. It seemed like most of the vegetable removal was done, and he was eating now at least, but he was slow. Yata tapped his fingers idly against the desk, following the movement of his friend’s hands as he separated each bite-sized portion before lifting them to his mouth.

Fushimi had light, dexterous fingers. Yata had seen them skitter against the holographic keyboard, graceful and confident – he could remember it clearly as he watched them now. The thought made his body shiver.

_He’s amazing, after all._

“Quit it,” Fushimi mumbled, thin lips turning down into a frown despite his eyes still being on his food.

Yata stilled, grinning sheepishly in response. “My bad.” He let out a sharp breath, not holding back his frustration with the atmosphere. “This place sucks, s’all.”

“You think?” Fushimi muttered dryly, still focused on his food. The corners of his mouth quirked, though it wasn’t obvious if he was trying to smile or deepen his frown.

It was that mysterious part of him that Yata liked. He was slowly starting to get Fushimi, bit by bit, but there were things he couldn’t predict. It was thrilling whenever he could pull a reaction, though – especially one of Fushimi's rare smiles. They were becoming gradually more common, a fact that settled warmly in the center of Yata's chest.

It was greedy of him, maybe. But he wanted to see more.

_It's natural, though, right? Because..._

"What are you looking at?"

The sharp mumble pulled him out of his thoughts. Yata blinked then shrugged, letting the grin tug across his face again. "Hey, Fushimi," he started, ignoring the question, "what d'you think about the whole soulmate thing?"

There was a tiny but noticeable pause; for that one instant, Yata had the strong impression that he'd asked something significant – and not necessarily in a good way. Fushimi's expression settled into a neutral one. "What," he drawled, in that bored tone, "you actually care about that stuff? It's garbage."

That was an effective enough distraction from the weirdness. Yata frowned back, dissatisfied with the response. "Huh? Why?"

"You're seriously asking that?" Fushimi clicked his tongue, shooting him a disdainful look. "What's good about a system that matches you arbitrarily with a random person? No one can even be sure about the criteria. Calling it a 'soulmate' is wishful thinking if you ask me."

Honestly, Yata hadn't thought that much about it. He shifted in his seat, a little disgruntled. "Oi..."

"There's no guarantee that the matching marks don't actually indicate your worst enemy instead," Fushimi pointed out, without waiting for his interruption. There was an undertone of something spiteful in his voice. "It could be the system's way of mocking us pathetic beings."

"There's no way that's true!" Yata responded fervently, straightening as his confidence returned. "If that was the case, you wouldn't have all those happy soulmate pairs, right? They say that being with your soulmate feels more right than anything! And besides" – he could feel uncomfortable warmth climbing up his face as he considered it, but plunged onward with determination – "what kind of sense would it make if you find your worst enemy doing... y'know... doing _that?_ "

Fushimi raised both eyebrows at him. "You can say the word 'sex', you know. It's not that hard." He clicked his tongue again, as if to cut off any possible protest. "Anyway, that's the worst part of it. What about those people who don't want to have sex? What about the ones who _can't_? The ones who are so ugly no one wants to do it with them?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "If soulmates are really as great as you say, don't you think it's a cruel system if it's going to lock people out on something so stupid?"

He didn't have a response for that either. Yata shifted in his seat again, impatient and frustrated with the sharp logic. "Well, yeah, but – "

"In the end, it's a faulty system," Fushimi talked over him. There was a dark edge in his voice, which lowered to something like a mutter as he continued. "What's the point of those marks, other than to show off to other people? You could get them from a one-night mistake, so what does it prove?"

"It means you have a connection, that's what!" Yata seized his advantage, quickly straightening again and meeting Fushimi's gaze boldly. "It means you belong with someone, and they belong with you." He clenched one hand into a fist and thumped it against his chest confidently. "Don't you think you'll know that person if you spend time with them, even before all the other stuff?"

Fushimi's expression was dubious to the point of dismissive. "Where did you hear that stupid theory?"

Yata grinned back at him. "Those are just my feelings. I'm pretty sure of it, though!"

"I should've guessed." Fushimi sighed. "You're an idiot through and through."

He didn't bother denying it. "Maybe so, but I'm an idiot who's someone's soulmate."

"What are you trying to prove with that?"

"Nothing. Just saying." Yata felt that same satisfied certainty settle within him and let his grin widen. "I’m someone’s soulmate, and I’ll devote my life to that person, just wait!"

Fushimi's thin lips curled down into a frown; he clicked his tongue again and mumbled, "Good luck with that. You could sleep with a thousand people and not find a match."

"I won't have to do anything like that," Yata responded confidently. "My feelings will guide me, right?"

"Don't count on it." Fushimi sighed, uncrossing his arms and returning to his food. "Do whatever you want. Just leave me out of it." Once again, that dark look seemed to flash in his eyes, there and gone in an instant. "I want nothing to do with that ridiculous system."

"Yeah, yeah." Somehow, even that derisive response didn't dim Yata's enthusiasm. He let the grin soften into a smile, watching Fushimi return to his meal, and felt more certain than ever. _There won't be a problem even if you don't._

After all, he was Fushimi's soulmate, and he wasn't going anywhere. The rest could sort itself out eventually.

 

* * *

 

 

The first week of Fushimi’s senior year in middle school was sunny with a crisp edge – that uncomfortable transition period where it was too cold for summer uniforms but the winter uniforms were sweltering. He wasn’t fond of extreme temperatures in either case, so it was really annoying.

For that reason, the steady stream of complaints that had been coming from Yata since they’d returned to school after the spring break were satisfying rather than grating. He only had to drop a few words of agreement here or there and it felt like his own frustrations were vented properly.

At the moment, as they exited the school building, they were in the shade so the temperature wasn’t too bad. The front walkway was bathed in afternoon sun – a guaranteed influx of heat – and by unspoken agreement they turned off at the bottom of the steps that led down from the doors. Due to the angle of the shadow from the building, most of the yard was shaded.

The grass was cleanly cut and only held a small amount of moisture from the sprinkler system. It would have been easy to slip if they weren’t careful, but this path had become routine in their years of attending school. Fushimi tempered his footsteps accordingly.

Yata, of course, walked normally without any care for the slippery surface, but he didn’t have as much to worry about. Natural athleticism had always been one of his strong points – the ‘only one’ if you cared to listen to the useless idiots they had running the education system.

_None of that is important anyway._

As they made their way across the field, Yata let out a sudden groan, stretching his arms over his head with exaggerated agitation. "Man, that was a waste of time! What the hell's with that, anyway?" He lowered both arms, letting the small bouquet of white flowers dangle carelessly. "Why do we need a class photo all of a sudden?"

_You’re telling me._ "Because it's our senior year, probably." Fushimi shrugged, allowing his own bundle of pale blue flowers to hang in a similar fashion. Those kinds of things were a waste of time, but it wasn’t any more or less of a bother than any other part of school. The only really annoying part was having to be uncomfortably close to his annoying classmates while standing in place for unspecified amounts of time.

As it happened, both he and Yata had been placed on the outside edge of the photo arrangement, he in the back with the taller students and Yata in the front with the shorter, and so they'd been given the flowers to hold and then told to take them home in the end.

It was useless, really. "Some idiots get sentimental about things like that. And we won't have time for it once we're focused on exams. Supposedly."

He added the last with heavy irony. The main focus in their age group – as it had been pretty much since the first year when they'd been given the official run-down in health class – was on soulmates. Sure, there would be something of a shift with exams coming up, but it was going to take a back seat, as with everything else. Even adults were like that, as disgusting as it sounded. The school system didn't like admitting that underage kids were having casual sex with their classmates, but that was the seedy truth. Nobody wanted to miss out on a chance of finding their match.

It was sickening.

"Who seriously wants to remember _school?_ " Yata snorted, letting the bouquet bounce against his knee as he walked, pace unhurried as they made their way across the grounds. The smell of freshly cut grass was stronger now that they were farther from the pavement, but it wasn’t overpowering. "The sooner we can get the hell outta here, the better, right?"

"You don't have to tell me." Fushimi clicked his tongue, but there wasn't much irritation in it. Not that he particularly minded being by himself, but there was something satisfying about having an ally against the boring idiots who comprised the rest of the world. And for all he had enthused about soulmates, Yata had done shockingly little to pursue one. Even discounting the sex part and going by his words from their first year, it didn't seem like he was actively seeking people out and trying to catch whatever those nebulous 'feelings' he'd harped about were.

_Well, it's not like I mind._ Maybe Yata had given up on that idea. Or maybe he just couldn't handle the bold sexual come-ons that went with the soulmate frenzy.

The latter was probably more likely, come to think of it.

"Guess I'll give these to Mom or something." Yata bounced the flowers back up so he could eye them balefully. "Seriously, they should've had girls holding them. What guy wants a bunch of flowers?"

"You could just throw them out," Fushimi reminded him dryly.

"That'd be a waste, though, right?" Yata scowled, as if the bouquet had offended him somehow. "Man, why'd I get the cheesy white ones? At least yours are blue."

Fushimi shrugged. "What difference does it make?"

"I dunno. They're kinda nice, I guess – they match your eyes." Once the words were out, Yata sucked in a sharp breath, as if he'd slipped up and was trying to draw them back in. When Fushimi glanced at him, his face had colored noticeably. "I mean... damnit, you know! Right?"

Something in his chest buzzed a little in response, a strangely comfortable tension settling within him. Fushimi turned his eyes to the bouquet in his hand, raising it a bit and studying the tiny blossoms critically. "What are you going on about?"

"N-nothing!" Yata reached up with his free hand to rub at the back of his neck, his lips bunching like he couldn't decide whether to scowl or not. His face was still red. "Forget it, okay?"

"If you say so." Fushimi put aside the confusing feelings. It was like that with Yata – he could strike hard sometimes, catching Fushimi off-guard. The moments had been harder to classify before he'd noticed it could mostly be categorized into points, zero and one hundred with a whole range in between that he barely bothered to keep track of. Yata was more interesting when he swung to either extreme, evoking the stronger feelings that Fushimi had begun to crave.

He wasn't sure exactly when that had happened, but somehow by the time he'd noticed there was no sense of alarm. Yata was a constant in his life now, a release from the tedium and aggravation that made up the rest of his existence.

"Hey, Fushimi." Apparently Yata had recovered from his embarrassment; a sideways glance revealed an intent gaze. "Are your parents soulmates?"

The abrupt change of subject would have been jarring enough without the sudden rush of dread and discomfort that formed into what felt like a black hole in Fushimi's stomach. He clicked his tongue to cover the unpleasant moment, trying not to think of the pair of black and white dice. He saw them too frequently above that hateful smirk. "What does it matter?"

"I dunno. Just curious, I guess." Yata's gaze flickered away, a tiny frown settling on his face. "I was thinking about it before, y'know, with my mom's situation."

Fushimi hadn't speculated much about Yata's family. They were normal enough, probably. The only unusual part was the earlier divorce, and what Yata had said about not feeling like he belonged. It was hard for him to understand. From all appearances, Yata's parents cared about him, his siblings looked up to him, and the dynamic was unremarkable. Aside from that one naked admission on the roof, years ago, they hadn't talked about it much.

When he compared it to his own...

It wasn't worth dwelling on. "What? They're not soulmates?"

"Huh?" Yata blinked at him, clearly surprised. "No – no, I'm pretty sure they are! They're happy, right?" The reasoning was weak, but he plunged onward just the same. "I mean, I wonder about my – my mom's first husband."

In other words, his biological father. "Didn't you say he was no good?"

"He is! Obviously, right?" Yata scowled down at his handful of flowers, as if dissatisfied with his own inability to explain his reasoning. "But she had a kid with him, even though they weren't soulmates."

"Plenty of people do that." It was more practical, Fushimi thought. There was a chance you could spend a lifetime and not find a match if you didn't give it up and settle eventually.

_Those people are better off than the rest, really._

"I guess." Yata's eyebrows were still knit together. "Guess it's lucky she left him and found a match, huh?"

That again. _Stop being tedious._ "You don't even know that for sure."

"I said I was pretty sure, okay?" As if the disagreement had snapped him out of it, Yata raised his head again, expression clearing into a grin. "You're still sour about the whole soulmate thing, huh?"

Fushimi clicked his tongue. _Zero points._ More out of spite than because Yata hadn't hit a bullseye. The entire topic was beyond stupid. "I don't care."

"Right, I thought you'd say that." Yata let out a brief huff of a laugh. He hesitated for a moment, silence falling between them as they approached the far edge of the school property. The yard was gated, of course, but at the corner of the fence there was a break that took them out onto the street. It wasn't exactly a shortcut – they didn't save any time – but the additional time in the shade was worth it.

It also meant they didn't have to deal with anyone else for that short period of time.

Fushimi preferred it that way. Other than Yata, there was no one at that school worth bothering with in the first place.

Beside him, Yata took in a breath, as if bracing himself. When he spoke again, his tone was oddly serious. "So," he started, and there was another awkward pause before he added, "Saruhiko."

He stopped there, as if that was all he had to say. Just that: 'Saruhiko'. It was enough. Fushimi turned his head to stare, unable to help it.

It wasn't like that man was the only one who called him by his first name. Sometimes the various maids who were hired to work at his house called him by it, and he'd gotten it frequently from teachers when he was smaller. It was different too – when that man said it, he never used the full name, just the part that amused him. The constant reminder of the true intention behind the composition of his given name. The other adults in his life said it properly, just the way that Yata had done now, and so there shouldn't have been anything that felt different about it at all.

There shouldn't have been... but somehow there was.

Pushing down the sudden rush of confusing feelings, Fushimi eyed Yata evenly. "What?"

"Eh?" Apparently that hadn't been the question Yata had expected. He looked startled - and then he abruptly colored again, shrugging awkwardly. "Uh... nothing. Just.." He reached up to scratch the back of his head. "We've been friends for a while, so I kinda thought... you know..."

The red on his face was spreading to his ears. It was a fascinating sight. "What? You want to be on a first name basis?" Fushimi let his voice draw out, falling back on mockery to cover the inexplicable squirming of pleasure at the pit of his stomach. "Are you sure about that, Misaki?"

Yata's head whipped up again at the sound of the forbidden name. If anything, the red on his face deepened, but his gaze didn't waver. "Yeah." His mouth screwed up again, before settling on a frown. "Just don't call me that in public, got it?"

Obviously he'd been thinking about it for a while, if that was the only reaction. Once again, Fushimi felt the tightening in his chest. It was a bit difficult to breathe; he wondered how he didn't feel suffocated. _He was ready to let me call him that..._ Clicking his tongue again, he turned his gaze forward. "Do what you want."

Yata let out a long breath. "All right!" There was a mix of triumph and relief in his tone. "Then I'll call you that from now on."

"Just remember you're the one who asked for it." Fushimi shot him a wry look. "No regrets, right, Misaki?"

Somehow, that earned him a grin instead of a grimace, though there were still traces of pink around it. "Damn right!"

Slowly, the edges of Fushimi's own mouth turned up in response, almost against his will. _One hundred points._

They'd reached the gap in the fence by that point, and the merciless light from the sun was visible beyond. Once they were through it, they'd be heading in opposite directions. A small seed of disappointment sprouted in Fushimi's stomach, and he mercilessly squashed it. Inevitably, they'd always have to part ways. There was no point in wasting time or trying to draw it out.

Still, the weight of the warmth pounding into his back as he stepped through seemed unreasonably heavy.

Yata – _Misaki_ – hesitated once they were back on the sidewalk, turning to face him with a thoughtful look. "Hey, Saruhiko," he started, drawing out the name a bit as if testing how it felt on his tongue, "you said you didn't care about the flowers, right?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So..." Misaki shrugged a bit awkwardly, and blurted, "Let's switch! Okay?"

Fushimi frowned at him, puzzled by the sudden demand. "Why?"

"No reason. Yours are nicer." Misaki shifted on his feet, clearly embarrassed. "I mean, Mom likes blue. It just works, right?"

_"They're kinda nice, I guess - they match your eyes."_

The strange, pleasant twisting feeling was back. Fushimi sighed sharply, ignoring it. "Fine."

They exchanged flowers. Misaki's fingers brushed his on both hand-offs, and his eyes were bright when their gazes met. "Thanks, Saruhiko!"

"It doesn't matter to me, so I don't need thanks."

"Yeah, well, I'll still give it even if you don't need it." Misaki grinned back at him before turning to head in the direction of his own home, waving with his free hand. "See ya tomorrow, Saruhiko!"

_You don't need to keep saying my name._ "See you." Despite the thought, Fushimi still felt like testing it himself; he waited a moment to get some distance between them and then mumbled under his breath, "Misaki."

It felt good on his tongue. Easy.

Deliberately pushing that pleasant feeling down – it wasn't doing him any good at the moment, anyway – he turned to begin the slow trek home.

As he walked, Fushimi glanced down at the flowers in his hand. They were tiny white buds – some kind of lily, he thought. Misaki had asked 'why'd I get the cheesy white ones?' but it seemed appropriate in a way. White meant purity, and Misaki was exactly that. Not in terms of sex or anything, although there was irony there when Fushimi thought about how flustered the subject made him. It wasn't even his strangely unsuitable name. But in spirit... He was that honest, and he couldn't keep his feelings to himself. His face lit up and his eyes sparkled when he was excited. Everything about him dimmed when he wasn't in that bright mode.

Purity wasn't a bad word for it.

_It’s funny I’d even recognize it, all things considered._

There was a light on in the house when Fushimi approached it. He felt his stomach tighten, the sensation unpleasant this time, and paused on the sidewalk.

For a brief moment, he considered what it might be like to put Misaki's flowers in water. Maybe just a plain vase. It wouldn't be difficult to get plant food, and if he changed the water frequently, they could live for a while. Not as long as they could if they were planted properly and took root, but it was still possible. If he was diligent and took care of them, then maybe...

A surge of something painful rose at the back of his throat, nearly choking him. Fushimi shut his eyes briefly, swallowed around it, and let out a sharp sigh.

_Don't be stupid._

When he turned his back on the house and walked away, he tossed the bundle of flowers into the nearest garbage can without hesitating or looking back.

 

* * *

 

Partway through November in their senior year of middle school, Yata found a place to move with Saruhiko.

It was kind of sudden, but the decision to move in together felt natural in a whole pile of ways – getting Saruhiko out of that house that couldn’t be called a home, first off, and for the sake of the great things they were going to do together one day, second – but mostly, Yata was being selfish. Living together meant they were with each other all the time, and he pretty much got Saruhiko to himself.

_Well, that should go without saying!_ After all, he was Saruhiko’s soulmate.

Still, he kind of had an idea what his mom would say about it, so he’d spent a full day sneaking his things out of his house. In the end, though, it didn't seem like there was much point.

He was just making his last trip, with a duffle bag full of the random belongings he’d gathered up in his final sweep of the house. He’d left the game consoles for Minoru – his dad had paid for them, after all – along with a whole selection of games that he and Saruhiko had already finished. He had his handheld console and a few PC titles they were going to try and set up on the computer Saruhiko had already moved into their new place.

That was probably fair enough, he reasoned.

Anyway, since it was going to be the last time he’d be there for a while, Yata took an extra few seconds to linger just outside the entranceway, breathing in the familiar scent of home cooking and the faint lemon from the cleaning products used to keep the place fresh. It was stuffy at night now with everyone inside and the windows all closed to keep the late autumn chill from filling the house. But with the sun having set a couple of hours ago, it wasn’t unbearable. The sound of the TV playing and Minoru’s steady stream of questions tapered by his father’s low, patient tones and Megumi’s high pitched giggling was like background noise by then; it was the norm for evenings in their place.

The familiar cramped quarters and paper-thin walls still had the comforting feel of _home_ sunken into them, and he had a momentary surge of loss at the thought of no longer living in this place. It was dumb considering the number of times he’d felt like an outsider – and the fact that he was pretty excited about the place he and Saruhiko had found – but it was something that had risen automatically within him, so he couldn’t exactly help it.

_Well, I’ll get over it pretty soon._ Pushing aside the strange feeling, Yata turned and headed for the door.

"Misaki." His mother's voice, which he was used to hearing in fond, exasperated, or stern tones, was quiet. Not in a sad or weary way, but... serious.

He froze with his hand on the doorknob. All day long, she'd ignored his constant comings and goings, but he probably couldn't really put this off. If he just disappeared, he'd be labelled a runaway and they'd look for him, right? But somehow he'd thought if he was very careful, it wouldn't be noticed right away and he could just send them a message or something...

_Shoulda known._ Yata turned around slowly, trying to avoid looking guilty. With his duffle bag slung over one shoulder, he looked pretty conspicuous no matter what. And it was hard to avoid in the first place - this was his mom, after all.

Still, he gave it his best, forcing a grin in response. "Hey, Mom - need something? I'm just meeting Saruhiko, so – "

"I've talked with you about lying, Misaki." Despite the stern words, there wasn't much rebuke in her tone. Her gaze was direct as she stepped into the small entranceway to join him. "I thought about waiting until you came to me first, but this is good enough, I think. You're moving out?"

Caught. Yata grimaced, ducking his head without thinking. "Yeah, well..."

"With Saruhiko?"

That helped him summon up his resolve again. Yata raised his head quickly, determined. "It's getting crowded here anyway, right?" he blurted, gripping the strap of his bag in tightly as he made his appeal. "Minoru and Megumi are growing up, and I'm already too old to be sharing a room now. This just makes things easier. Plus, Saruhiko is – well – his home life and all..."

He was fumbling with how to explain his own feelings without talking too much about things he didn't understand, but thankfully, his mother seemed to know what he couldn't quite put into words. "That's enough, Misaki." She let out a soft sigh, sounding almost rueful. "I wasn't planning to stop you. If it's something you've decided for yourself, then nothing I say will talk you out of it." Her smile was wry. "In that sense, you really are my son."

The old familiar words set off a little ping in his chest; Yata swallowed, momentarily at a loss. _It feels different now._ He couldn't explain it, but there was none of the old meaning behind it. He didn't feel like he could hold his head up with pride and feel the truth of it resonating in his soul.

Because what gave him that feeling now was...

"I gotta do it. I'm his soulmate." Yata pulled in a breath, drawing himself up. "Saruhiko's, I mean."

He could hear it when his mother's breath caught; her eyes widened. "Misaki...?"

"Wait – no – n-not officially or anything!" That was _not_ something he'd wanna let his mom think. Yata waved both hands frantically. "I-it's just a feeling I have. I know it, okay? I'm not gonna do anything, I swear!"

"Soulmates..." She repeated the word slowly, staring at him for a long moment as if deep in thought, and then shut her eyes. "I see."

Something in her tone felt off. Yata watched her face apprehensively. "Mom?"

"It's all right." His mother opened her eyes again, offering a smile that was an odd mix of resignation, fondness, and a kind of aching sadness. "You really are my son, after all."

It was an expression he'd never seen before, and the sight of it made his skin prickle. _What's happening here?_ "Y-yeah," was all he could manage in response, a blend of anxiety and uncertainty swirling in his stomach. His fingers tightened around the duffle bag strap.

She would still let him go, wouldn't she?

"Well, don't just stand there." In the next moment, she let out a huff, the strangeness seeming to drop away in the wake of the knowing smile he saw every day. "If you're planning to leave, you can at least give your mother a hug before you go."

That seemed to clear the air. Yata grinned back sheepishly. "Right, sorry."

There was still something awkward between them - like there should've been more to the conversation, maybe – but when her arms wrapped around him, Yata experienced a moment of sharp nostalgia. He didn't have to force it when he hugged her back tightly.

_Just one more time is okay, right?_

When they pulled back, she took his face in her hands and leaned in to kiss his forehead. "I love you, Misaki." The tone was matter-of-fact; his mother grinned crookedly at him as she straightened, releasing him. "You know that, don't you?"

Yata squirmed on his feet, vaguely embarrassed by both the words and the gesture. "Yeah, I get it. Love you too," he added hastily, not wanting a lecture when he should've left already. "So..."

“Oh, right!” She made a fist and bumped it onto her open palm, then quickly turned to head back into the main portion of the house. “Wait right there! I just have one more thing before you go…”

_Seriously?_ Yata stared after her, shifting impatiently on his feet. “Mom…”

"Saruhiko's waiting, right? I’ll be quick!” Her voice trailed off a bit as she spoke, almost to herself. “Now where did I put it…? Ah!” There was the sound of footsteps hurrying back, and then she appeared, a wide book with a thick cover in her hand. “Here.” She held it out to him, with a bit of a smile. “Take this.”

He reached out for it without thinking, and blanched when he recognized the cover. It was an old collection of kids’ stories that she used to read to him when he was little. The cover had worn spots, but the binding was in good shape and it was thick and heavy in his hand, just like he remembered from all the times he’d carried it to her back then.

_Aw man… Saruhiko’s gonna laugh at me._ Yata looked up at her warily, trying to gauge how serious she was. “Mom, this book’s for kids! What am I gonna do with it? Minoru and Megumi should – ”

“It’s fine. They’ve got their own.” His mother crossed her arms over her chest, fixing him with a grin and a knowing look. “My father used to read this one to me, so there’s a legacy behind it. You can open it whenever you’re feeling like being a grown up is overwhelming – that’s what I used to do.” Her gaze turned serious – the look that meant business if he disagreed. “Just humor me, Misaki. And take care of it, all right?”

He wasn’t gonna win this one, that was for sure. Yata suppressed a sigh, tucking the book into his bag and shifting some of the other stuff so it was buried. If he didn’t bring it out, maybe Saruhiko wouldn’t notice he had it. “Got it.”

 Her expression softened, the grin settling into a familiar fond smile. "Don't forget to call home often."

"Yup." He turned to reach for the doorknob again.

"And come back for dinner sometimes, all right?"

The door opened under his hand. "Yeah, sure."

"Don't get into any trouble out there!"

"I won't!" Yata paused partway out the door, a little disgruntled. "I got this, Mom, I swear!"

She raised both eyebrows, but didn't comment. "Well, if you get into any trouble, call right away."

"Yeah, yeah." There was no way he was calling. He wouldn't survive the hit to his pride if he had to rely on her after leaving the house on his own.

_Besides, I'll have Saruhiko with me._ There was nothing they couldn't handle together.

"Take care of yourself," his mother added, in a tone that was somewhat mollified.

He stepped through the door, tossing her a grin over his shoulder. "Yeah. Bye, Mom!"

She returned the smile, but somehow, even as he stepped out onto the sidewalk and left his old home behind, he couldn't help but think that her expression was still troubled.

 

* * *

 

 

"Goddamnit!" Misaki's controller dropped forcefully, its owner falling back against the wall behind him with a dull thud. "I almost had it!"

Fushimi lowered his own PDA more carefully, raising an eyebrow in response. "You think so?"

"It sure as hell seemed like it!" Misaki let out an impatient huff of breath, letting his head fall back to hit the wall as well. "How are you so damn fast?"

"It's not that difficult." Fushimi shrugged.

"Yeah, says you." Misaki shot him a disgruntled look, which was broken half a second later with a rueful grin. "You're too good at this, Saruhiko."

The praise wasn't exactly at its usual level, but Fushimi didn't mind it. They had been living together now for roughly two weeks, which meant the winter break was approaching – and along with it, Jungle’s surprise party. Settling into a routine in their new place had been surprisingly simple. It wasn’t a large place to begin with, but the lack of space wasn’t stifling. He only needed to retreat up to the loft where his computer and futon were set up if he wanted solitude, and Misaki would generally take the hint and either head out with his skateboard or start up his handheld console in the space beneath the loft that was his, muttering swears as he struggled with whatever game he was playing.

Those times were rare. Spending his free time with Misaki wasn’t exactly an unpleasant prospect.

He no longer had the funds to be careless about spending, but Misaki took care of the chores, including shopping, and so he only had to scrounge up enough through online games to contribute to rent. It had been something of a nuisance when the weather had cooled down and the loft where he slept became colder than he liked, but some additional effort online had earned him enough for a small space-heater and that had solved that problem nicely.

For that reason, they’d been spending a lot of their time in the apartment alternating between the kotatsu that they’d salvaged and the loft – when Fushimi felt like inviting Misaki up into his personal space, that is.

Most of the time it was fine. Right then, he had a specific reason.

Earlier, Misaki had been wishing they could afford a game console, and so he'd put together a rough emulator on his PC with an adjacent program for the PDAs to serve as controllers. It had been a nice break from working on his programs for Jungle's surprise party, and when he'd called Misaki up and demonstrated, the enthusiastic response had made the work worthwhile.

His chest still felt oddly warm when he thought of Misaki's sparkling eyes.

"If you're giving up, we can always play co-op instead." When they played versus, he usually had the advantage – although there were a few games Misaki could beat him at. It went easier if they could team up. Sometimes he thought he could even get a sense of what Misaki liked to boast about – that whole "us versus the world" thing.

_Well, that's not exactly bad._

"Hey, yeah!" Misaki lifted his head, seeming to perk up a bit. "I mean, it feels kinda wrong to quit without beating you once..." He frowned a bit. "But if we're gonna work together, I'll let it pass!" Just like that, the frown was gone, spreading up into a bright grin. "Feels like we can conquer anything, right, Saruhiko?"

The bright assertion pulled a little smile out of him – not that he resisted it much. Something within him had relaxed, a lull seeming to settle over the anxious places, when he'd moved into this place. Since he'd come to live with Misaki, he felt content. Happy, even.

It felt like they _could_ conquer anything.

"Well, we can handle this game, at least."

He was going through the menu with his makeshift controller when Misaki spoke again. "Hey... Saruhiko?" His voice was oddly subdued.

Fushimi paused. "What?"

"You think...?" Misaki stopped there, frowning a bit as if reconsidering his words. His expression was an odd mix of agitation and uncertainty. "I mean, we work well together, right? We're a team. The best team! Everything just clicks when it's you and me – there's nothing we can't do together. That's how I honestly feel."

_Why is this coming up all of a sudden?_ Fushimi took advantage of the brief pause when Misaki caught his breath, cautiously interjecting with, "What are you trying to get at?"

"Don't you think...?" Once again, Misaki seemed to have one of those false starts, but this time he plunged on boldly, eyes bright with determination and conviction when he blurted, "Don't you think we're definitely soulmates, Saruhiko?"

It felt like his throat closed up, an icy hand closing around his heart and causing his chest to constrict painfully. _Soulmates._ Even the word was repugnant.

It was a struggle to keep his face still, to keep the panic from shortening his breath. He didn't want that word applied to himself. He didn't want it applied to Misaki. To _them_. What they had was...

What they had...

_"We're really a perfect combination, aren't we?"_

"Shut up," he muttered, before he could stop the immediate reaction. That man was gone. Not dead - not yet, anyway – but not in his life. There was nothing but memories left to pester him, and yet still...

_Why? Leave me alone already!_

"Saruhiko?" Misaki was staring at him now, confused and clearly anxious, his nerves betrayed by the way his hands had fisted in his lap, the PDA abandoned.

The sight was enough to ground him. This was Misaki, after all. Fushimi breathed in slowly and let out a low sigh, feeling some of the tension leave him. That clear, honest gaze seemed to burn into his soul, bringing clarity. Misaki, who thought soulmates were amazing, who believed whole-heartedly that he could recognize the real thing without confirming it officially. Misaki, who was convinced that they would do amazing things together and conquer the world – whose belief was so pure and solid that Fushimi had started to believe it right along with him.

There was no way the two of them could be anything like soulmates in this corrupted system.

That conviction was enough to bring the rest of the world back into focus. "You still believe in that nonsense?" he managed to say mumble in response. "Don't be stupid."

"Huh? What's that mean?" Misaki's eyebrows knit together in puzzlement. "Of course I believe – there's all kinds of evidence that – "

Fushimi flicked him in the forehead. "That's not what I meant, idiot. Of course soulmates _exist_. But you still believe it actually means something, don't you? Haven't you given up on that already?"

Misaki looked a bit disgruntled at that response, but even as he rubbed his forehead, his expression quickly settled into a stubborn frown, eyes set. "I dunno why you're so against it, but I'm telling you, it means a lot! It means we're meant to be together – haven't I always said that?"

_It's not the same, idiot._ Fushimi clicked his tongue. "That has nothing to do with being soulmates," he muttered out loud. "You're acting like it's confirmed, but what proof do you have outside of your so-called 'feelings'?"

For a moment, Misaki looked hurt – it was a fleeting impression that crossed his features, as though he'd flinched back at the words. The reaction was satisfying on a surface level, but somehow unnerving as well – a sliver of something like discomfort wound in Fushimi's stomach, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

Well, it wasn't that he enjoyed hurting Misaki, but he didn't want to have this conversation either.

The moment passed quickly enough, either way; Misaki's mouth turned down sharply again. "Nothing, but still..."

"That's what I thought." He drawled the words out, raising both eyebrows to drive the point home. _I'm right. You know I'm right, so drop it already._ "There's no way we could be – "

"I-I'll prove it!" The unexpected outburst had him glancing up sharply; when he met Misaki's gaze, those eyes were burning again with fervent conviction. "Any time. R-right now, even." He drew himself up, eyebrows coming down into something close to a glare. "Bring it on!"

Fushimi started at him, nonplussed. "Idiot... do you even know what you're – ?"

"I know! I know it, okay?" There was red spreading across Misaki's face, fierce, flustered embarrassment evident in the grimace on his lips and the way he squirmed, one hand reaching up to rub at his neck almost reflexively. But his eyes didn't waver. "I-I'll do it with you any time! Whenever you want! I-I want to, okay?"

The declaration struck him dumb. Fushimi swallowed thickly, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. It was a difficult motion with the way his throat felt like it had swollen. He wasn't sure how to react.

Misaki had just stupidly declared that he wanted to have sex with him.

_Seriously, how far is he willing to take this?_

He clicked his tongue again, ready to make some sort of scathing remark, but Misaki beat him to it, bulling ahead again with his voice full of honest emotion. "I-It's not like it's just to prove it or anything! I mean, kinda, but you know..." He hesitated for only a second, before plunging in again, "I _want_ to. With you. There isn't anyone else I'd – you know..." A frustrated breath interrupted that. "You know what I mean! Anyway, if – if we do it and it turns out we aren't soulmates, I'll admit you're right about everything." That came with another stubborn, halfway embarrassed scowl. "But if you're gonna do it with me, then you better prepare yourself, Saruhiko, because I know we are!"

_You don't know anything._ The words stuck on his tongue before he could get them out. Fushimi looked away, irritated with the prickle of pleasure that seemed to have crept up along his skin at Misaki's declaration.

_"I want to._

_"With you._

_"There isn't anyone else"._

There was a dull ache in his chest, rising up fast at the back of his throat. Fushimi had given up on truly wanting things – too many years of unsatisfactory return. He mostly thought himself above that now, but there were times when this feeling caught him by surprise. Usually, it was fleeting and when it passed, he could push it to the back of his mind, but this...

Every second he sat there seemed to increase the intensity. He _wanted_. Blindly. Fervently.

It was unsettling and alarming, but he couldn't deny it.

Misaki cleared his throat; when Fushimi glanced at him, he seemed to have shrunk back in his seat, confidence clearly wilting in the uncomfortable silence that had fallen between them. His gaze was uncertain. "If – if you don't wanna – "

"All right."

It came out flatly, more of an immediate reaction to the possibility of Misaki retracting his offer than from Fushimi consciously agreeing to the idea. He'd even surprised himself with it, somewhat. It was like something in him had... panicked.

Misaki blinked at him. "Eh? Wait... really?"

Now that it was out there, he didn't feel like taking it back – and actually, the more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed on a rational level. Fushimi clicked his tongue. "I said 'all right', didn't I?"

If he did it, then that would be the end of any soulmate talk. The chances of them _actually_ being soulmates were slim, after all. If being soulmates meant the kind of relationship that man had with his wife, then it was obvious that what was between the two of them wouldn't qualify. It was obvious that those sparkling eyes and that bright, pure spirit had no place in whatever poisonous dynamic could result in matching marks.

_And besides, if I'm doing this with him... If it's with Misaki, then..._

He could feel it again – that pleasant tightness in his stomach - but he deliberately squashed it. This was just to prove a point, nothing else. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

It was fascinating to watch the way Misaki’s lips twitched as color spread across his face again. “I – well – it’s not like – I mean, we can figure it out, right?” His hands, clenched into fists in his lap, seemed to tremble just a little. “Lots of people do it. Can’t be that hard! Right?”

_Even idiots are doing this with no problem._ Still, it was unnerving to go into an unknown situation without any particular preparation. Fushimi resisted the urge to fold his arms, turning his head to regard Misaki with a deliberately dubious look. "If you say so."

"Yeah." Had there always been such a small amount of space between them? Misaki swallowed noticeably, shifting in his seat so that his body was angled more towards Fushimi's. His cheeks still held some red, but he sucked in a breath and seemed to draw in his courage similarly, eyes bright and straightforward as always but with a hint of something softer beneath as he leaned in - and then hesitated. "Is it okay if... y'know...?"

Something about that look sent an odd shiver of heat down along the length of Fushimi's torso; he could feel it pooling in his stomach, and had to fight for control of his reactions. Two equally strong desires warred within him: to withdraw from the situation entirely... or to close the distance himself and take hold of Misaki with his own hands.

The contrast was what kept him sitting there instead, caught between those warring forces, and he managed a non-committal, "Mm," in response, hoping Misaki would catch the acceptance behind it.

He did - or, at least, he seemed to. The space between them seemed to narrow at an agonizingly slow pace. Fushimi let his eyes go lidded, watching through the remaining slits as Misaki shut his own eyes, letting out a shuddering breath that Fushimi could feel as much as hear. His heart picked up in speed and intensity and he let his own lids lower completely, sparks firing off in his stomach before he even felt the hesitant brush of lips against his own.

It was simple and awkward, but the echo of that clumsy touch seemed to reverberate across his bones. Misaki's mouth was set unevenly against his, and his breathing stuttered against Fushimi's cheek, proof of his frazzled nerves. But he was warm - so warm - the strong familiar scent of him more prominent than ever. His lips were soft.

Somehow in his mind, Fushimi could imagine the natural downturn of them on Misaki's resting face, the curve and fullness, and it felt like some expectation he hadn't known he'd been holding had just been met.

After a brief pause, Misaki pulled back, hesitated for a single tense moment, and then readjusted and plunged back again, more forcefully.

There was nothing substantially different in the second kiss aside from the degree of pressure against his lips, but the flurry in Fushimi's lower body intensified. Without thinking fully, he pressed back, turning his head to adjust the angle at which Misaki's mouth sat against his.

Misaki made a little sound, like an involuntary reaction to the movement, and his breath hitched. He pulled back again, this time not hesitating before closing the tiny space that separated them, parting his lips and brushing the line between Fushimi's with the tip of his tongue.

It was a sensation he hadn't prepared himself for. A soft thrumming noise rose up at the back of his throat, but Fushimi didn't pause to process the mild embarrassment, for once driven by instinct rather than his own logic. He let his lips part, granting access to that tentatively questing tongue, and drank in the answering shudder that wracked Misaki's frame greedily.

_It feels good._

The thought drifted to the front of his mind without his consciousness behind it, but Fushimi wasn't concerned with that. The wet heat of Misaki's mouth was open to him, and the ache he felt building in his lower body as their tongues brushed could only be desire. It was heady and warm, filling him pleasantly, and he felt that foreign surge of _want_ coursing through his veins like a drug.

He wanted to continue more than anything - to take this all the way to its inevitable conclusion. With Misaki's scent around him, Misaki's mouth on his, Misaki's body pressing against his...

One of Misaki's hands slid hesitantly onto his thigh, fingers trembling just enough to be noticeable, and Fushimi felt the telltale tightening between his legs in response to that light touch. It felt good. Right. Perfect.

Through the pleasant haze that had settled over his brain, one thought seemed to cut through with precise clarity: _Maybe we really are soulmates, after all._

Ice seemed to skitter down his spine. Fushimi stiffened.

_"... a perfect combination..."_

That was it. Heat and pleasure lost in the cold grip of panic, Fushimi pulled back, turning his head before he could catch more than a glimpse of Misaki's dazed face, and shifted to pull his legs up in preparation to move, effectively dislodging that hand.

"S-Saruhiko...?"

"I changed my mind." He cut across the confused protest sharply, pushing himself up into a crouch so that he could shift forward towards the ladder leading down from the loft. Wicked clarity was settling over his brain in the wake of that haze of arousal, and he was already feeling unsettled – and more than a little disgusted with himself. The intensity of those sensations had caught him off-guard, but it was worrisome just how quickly and easily he’d lost control. His heart still beat wildly, remnants of the overwhelming rush of alien feelings still making their presence known throughout his body. "I don't want to."

_Is it always like this?_ All they had done was kiss, and his entire body felt strange, his mind scrambling to collect itself in the aftermath. How did the rest of those idiots cope?

"Eh? But..."

As he turned to climb down, Fushimi couldn't help but catch another glimpse of Misaki. He was flushed and clearly confused, eyes still a bit glazed from the brief contact. When their gazes met, his brows knit together with obvious bafflement, as if he couldn't quite figure out why and how that had gone wrong. The initial protest trailed off and died, Misaki’s mouth trembling as he closed it into a frown, anxious uncertainty written all over his features. A tense silence spread between them in its wake.

Fushimi clicked his tongue, turning his gaze aside. _You don't need to know._ There wasn't any need for the past to be brought up. Even less need for anything related to soulmates between them. _Those things aren't useful to anyone._

Turning aside from that honest gaze and deliberately closing off the memory of the heat that had threaded through his body during the attempted kiss, Fushimi descended the ladder.

_It's better to forget all of it._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to things that happen in Lost Small World (novel and manga), set during the time when Fushimi and Yata were both members of Homra.

It was a late October afternoon when Yata flung open the door to Homra bar enthusiastically, not minding the various scrapes on his arms and legs from the latest scuffle. Some of the chill that was starting to fill the air with fall setting in wafted into the building behind him, snaking around his legs in contrast to the hearty warmth hitting him full-force from inside. "Yo!"

"Not so rough," Kusanagi scolded him from behind the bar.

"My bad!" Even that couldn't take the shine off of his latest victory. Yata hurried forward, skirting the tables and chairs with casual ease and grinning widely. "We got the bastards, Kusanagi-san! Those assholes that were roughing guys up in Homra's territory won't be back any time soon!"

"That so?" He got a raised eyebrow and a bit of a rueful smile. "Funny, I don't remember giving that order..."

Yata stopped by the bar, puffing his chest out with pride. "Those small fry are no big deal for us – you don't need to worry about it, Kusanagi-san!"

Before there was a chance for his older friend to respond, a familiar chuckle came from the other end of the bar. "You really have a lot of energy, huh, Yata-chan?"

"You bet!" His grin widened without any effort on his part, the usual warm fondness sprouting in his chest as he turned to his left and took in that gentle smile. "You shoulda seen it, Totsuka-san! I scattered them up real good, and then Saruhiko picked them off – it was seriously so cool!"

Kusanagi took the opportunity to interject as he caught his breath. "Ah, Fushimi was with you? I should've guessed." There was an amused edge to his gaze when Yata turned back to him. "Did he not come back with you?"

A little of the good mood evaporated with the reminder. "Ah – right, well." Yata reached up with the hand that wasn't holding his skateboard to rub at the back of his neck, shrugging a bit. "He went home. Guess he wasn't feeling great or something."

It was probably his imagination. Actually, it definitely was – he and Saruhiko were partners, after all. Soulmates. He was still sure of that, even if Saruhiko didn't talk to him much lately... It was just how he was sometimes. And they were busy with Homra’s business, after all. Just because it seemed like Saruhiko was avoiding touching him as much as possible... it didn’t mean...

Well, if he thought about it, that wasn't new.

 _'Cause of me, right?_ Ever since that night they didn't talk about, nearly a year ago when they'd still been on their own. That stupid kiss. It wasn't like things had gotten awkward or anything – mostly, Yata was pretty sure they just acted normal afterward. And he wasn't gonna bring it up, not when it was obvious that Saruhiko didn't... want to.

_He hated it, right? That's why._

It was his fault for pushing it, he knew that. So, whatever. Not like they needed to do... it. If Saruhiko didn't want to, then that was that. It kinda stung - he wasn't sure what about him was such a turn-off – but the important thing was being together, right? They were Homra's Vanguard team now.

And they had the matching marks. Yata let his hand slide down so his fingers curled over the familiar spot on his chest. It never failed to cheer him up when he thought about it. Their Homra tattoos weren't exactly like soulmate marks - they were in the exact same place instead of being mirror images - but it was close enough to validate what he was sure of in his heart.

He was Saruhiko's soulmate, whether they confirmed it or not.

Just, there was one kinda annoying problem...

"Hm, really?" Totsuka interrupted his thoughts, tilting his head with a look of mild concern. "Hopefully he's not coming down with a cold or anything."

"Nah." Yata shook his head, summoning up a bit of his previous grin. "I mean, yeah, he used to catch cold pretty easy, but it hasn't been so bad since we moved in together."

"Ah, I get it!" Totsuka brightened at that, then smiled warmly at him. "You take pretty good care of him, then, huh, Yata-chan?"

Somehow, that was kind of embarrassing; Yata felt warmth rush up to his face and waved his hand in denial. "N-not really! I just cook sometimes, y'know? Normal stuff." He hastily moved on past it with, "Anyway, since we joined, I'll bet our aura takes care of stuff like colds! Right?" He turned his hand over and clenched it into a fist, grin widening again as he lit it up with fire. "Mikoto-san's powers are really amazing, after all!"

“Not in the bar,” Kusanagi warned him and shook his head when Yata sheepishly retracted his aura. “I think you’re expecting too much of it, Yata-chan.”

"No way! I'm sure I don't even know half of how awesome it is!" It was from Mikoto, after all - Yata was pretty positive Mikoto could do almost anything. He could still vividly recall how his King had sauntered coolly towards the crowd of masked Jungle users and wiped out everything aimed at Saruhiko without seeming to bat an eye.

That was the moment it had struck him how truly powerless they were all along. He was Saruhiko's soulmate, and he still hadn't been able to do anything but tremble like a scared little kid and beg a stranger for help. The memory of that helpless terror still haunted him, vivid in his dreams. He'd woken up, shaken and sweaty, more times than he cared to admit from visions of being too late - of Mikoto not being there and Saruhiko's beaten and bloody form crumpled at his feet.

 _But... now I can protect everyone._ He was a part of Homra now. Just the thought of it filled his soul with warmth. He was someone with amazing powers, amazing skill, and the ability to kick the asses of anyone who threatened his friends. He was unstoppable, and nothing could shake him!

All thanks to Mikoto, who was a real life hero. Mikoto, whose powers had chosen Yata and allowed him to be a small part of something amazing. Mikoto, who had given him a place to belong and the identity he'd been waiting to step into his entire life.

Homra's Yatagarasu.

It even sounded cool in his thoughts.

"I can see it's pretty pointless to try and convince you otherwise." Kusanagi's tone was ruefully amused; he offered a small smile. "Try and mind your limits, would you, Yata-chan?"

Yata shrugged. "You worry too much, Kusanagi-san! They didn't even land a solid hit on me. Besides, I had Saruhiko along."

Totsuka chuckled again. "Is that supposed to be better or worse?"

"Huh?" Yata blinked at him. "What's that mean?"

"Never mind." Kusanagi shook his head. "Let's just say the two of you are a recipe for disaster, and leave it at that."

"No wonder you got those matching marks, hm?" Totsuka added, playfully.

Yata reached up to brush his fingers over the familiar spot at the front of his shirt without thinking, and felt his face heat as he noticed his friend's smile widen. "Y-yeah, well..." He let that trail off, clearing his throat. "Totsuka-san, you don't have a soulmate, do you?"

At that, Totsuka blinked, seeming a little surprised by the turn in conversation. "Me?" He recovered quickly, an easy smile spreading on his face. "No way – you think I'm that type, Yata-chan?"

If anything, the uncomfortable flush on his face intensified. "Ah - no, I didn't mean – "

"It's fine, it's fine – I'm just teasing." Totsuka waved a careless hand, and his eyes softened a little. "Well, I don't have a soulmate, but King does."

Yata felt his eyes widen, a little shock running through his system. "M-Mikoto-san does...?"

"Totsuka," Kusanagi said, a hint of a rebuke in his voice.

"Sorry!" At once, Totsuka's smile was all cheer. "Don't mind me, gossiping away." He raised a finger to his lips with a wink. "Maybe keep that to yourself, okay, Yata-chan?"

Kusanagi shot him a glance with an undertone of something that Yata couldn't understand. He barely paid it any mind, still reeling over that unexpected revelation. _Mikoto-san has a soulmate..._

Who could possibly be awesome enough to match up to his King?

It was obviously too late to ask now, though. "Y-yeah." Trying to push his curiosity aside – he wasn't gonna be the one to blab on about Mikoto's personal business when he was trusted with that kinda secret, after all – he shrugged awkwardly, and shifted focus. "What about you, Kusanagi-san?"

He got an amused smile for his trouble. "Yata-chan, let me tell you something – when you've got a little more experience under your belt, you'll learn not to expect every affair to result in a match."

Totsuka hummed a little. "You mean you _hope_ none of those affairs result in a match. Right?"

One of Kusanagi's eyebrows twitched; when he spoke, his voice was deliberately even. "Now, listen..."

Yata was too impatient to wait for their banter to continue; the subject made it feel like something had swelled close to bursting in his chest, and he couldn't keep it in. "But finding your soulmate's a good thing, right?"

"Ah..." Kusanagi blinked, looking a bit taken aback for a moment, and then his expression cleared. "Not to say it's a bad thing..."

"Not everyone's looking, though," Totsuka added; when Yata turned to look at him, his smile was warm and his eyes strangely knowing – with a hint of some other, implacable undertone mixed in. "After all, not everyone can expect their best friend to be their soulmate."

Kusanagi let out a soft sigh, but said nothing.

It felt like there was something significant going on, but Yata couldn't quite put his finger on what he'd missed. The 'best friend' part already had him squirming with embarrassment on his feet. _They don't know, right? I mean, they can't..._

He wasn't even sure if Saruhiko knew all of it, and he kinda wanted to keep it that way, considering how things had gone last time. After that aborted kiss, it had started to feel like he'd fucked up – opened some kind of floodgate within his own heart that didn't have an 'off' switch. Everything had been so easy before they'd done it, and now...

It was embarrassing, but he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He wanted... all kinds of things. Stuff he wasn't even sure about. That kiss wouldn't leave his head; the soft, warm sensation of Saruhiko's lips and the slick interior of his mouth under Yata's tongue. It was intoxicating; addicting. He'd only done it once, and he was... he was fixated. When he thought about it, it was like his brain was swallowed in heat and his body trembled in a way it never had.

Saruhiko didn't want to, so he couldn't... he _shouldn't_ think about those things. It was just that he couldn't help it. Sometimes it felt like he couldn't control his own body or mind at all.

It was kinda freaky, in a way.

"Yata?" Totsuka's mildly concerned voice broke into his thoughts; when he glanced up, startled, his friend was eyeing him curiously. "Something wrong?"

"Eh... no! N-nothing!" Yata swallowed hard, feeling flustered. This was the last time or place he wanted to get swallowed up by that shit. Forcefully pushing the thoughts aside, he reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "Just kinda spaced out, sorry!"

"Mm... Are you sure you didn't catch whatever Fushimi's got?" Kusanagi frowned a bit. "Maybe you should head home too, Yata-chan – don't push yourself."

"Nah, it's fine!" Yata quickly brushed that off, managing a grin. "I got stuff on my mind, that's all." It was better not to be around Saruhiko anyway, if he was thinking like that – he'd be back to normal again later, and it'd be no problem. "Anyway, I wanna stay and hang out with everyone!"

"Right? Me too." Totsuka met his gaze and smiled back, cheerful as ever. "How about helping me cook something while we wait for King and Anna to get back, hm?"

"All right!" Yata quickly leaned his board against one of the stools, feeling recharged. "Let's go!"

"Make sure you clean up when you're done," Kusanagi called after them.

Waving in acknowledgement, Yata hurried after Totsuka and shoved those troubling thoughts as far to the back of his mind as he could get them.

 

* * *

 

 

Misaki was late again – Fushimi could tell without even checking the time when he heard the door to their place open.

There were no windows, so he couldn’t tell anything based on the amount of light in the room. It was either shitty flickering light or pitch black, nothing in between. That hadn’t bothered him much when they’d originally moved there, but after a year and a half he was beginning to find it irritating. He was tired of squinting at his screen.

Considering how mind-numbingly boring it had become to pass his evenings at the Homra bar watching Misaki laugh like an idiot, he was spending a lot more time squinting lately.

The main reason he could tell it was late was because the narrow hallway that led to their apartment had a window that faced west, which caused the evening sun to bathe the entire stretch of it with bright light. It was nearly June and the light lasted longer these days. But when Misaki had charged in, there was no illumination.

_Well past sunset again, huh?_

“Oi! Saruhiko! You awake?”

 _What do you think?_ The lights were out, his computer was off, and he was wrapped in his blanket on the loft, his back to the room. It was as if Misaki couldn’t read even the most obvious situation any more.

It wasn’t even so much that Misaki was hitting zero points at all times – lately, it was as if he didn’t even care about aiming for the one hundred point responses. He was just a long stream of half-assed mid-point interactions lately. It was tiresome.

_Nothing but Homra, Homra all the time…_

He heard Misaki moving around on the ground floor, cursing under his breath as the door shut with force and the sound of footsteps and then rustling as he dropped whatever was with him carelessly. Then a brief moment of silence, a sharp huff of breath, and the unmistakable sound of the ladder to the loft being climbed.

"Saruhiko?" Misaki's voice had lowered in volume, sounding almost tentative now. It made Fushimi's skin feel like it was prickling up, hearing his name in that tone. "You're awake, right?"

 _Take a hint, idiot._ He deliberately kept his breath even, hoping that a lack of response would deter whatever had prompted Misaki to try and get his attention now.

He could feel it when Misaki rested some of his weight on the loft, and the prickling intensified, almost a shiver under his skin. It was unnerving to be so aware of it, but that couldn't be helped. As much as he found Misaki to be tedious lately, he couldn't help but feel a pull in that direction as well. In a crowded room, his eyes would be drawn to just one person - at times when they weren't together, he found himself seeking out that singular presence. There were moments when he would look at Misaki and an ache rose up within him, nearly choking him. It was as if he couldn't properly breathe, but in an entirely different way than how he felt at Homra. This wasn't so much stifling as it was him _drowning_ , with conflicting and overwhelming feelings surrounding him until he choked on them.

He wanted Misaki to leave him alone, but he also craved Misaki's presence. It was an unpleasant loop.

Another impatient-sounding huff of breath came from the direction of the ladder. "I'll just go ahead and say it," Misaki muttered. "If you're asleep, whatever, fine – but if you're just pretending to sleep, then at least listen, okay?"

Despite his words, he paused there, shifting with obvious agitation. _Just say it and go away,_ Fushimi thought at him. Misaki's discomfort and uncertainty made him feel restless and antsy. Already he could feel the energy building in his own body; he wouldn't be able to sleep for a long time now, after this.

It wasn't as if Misaki needed anything from him. Misaki had Homra now, and that was clearly enough. There was nothing that Fushimi could do for him to evoke the sparkling eyes and bright smile he'd once taken such satisfaction in. Everything that Misaki needed, wanted, or might be impressed by was already there in front of him, at Bar Homra. Suoh Mikoto had given him the life he'd always wanted, along with everyone else in the red clan. The things that Fushimi could do were no longer of any use or interest. Not to Misaki, and not to any other person at Homra.

"You should stay later at the bar sometimes," Misaki went on, blithely unaware of Fushimi's internal reasoning. "Some of the guys said it earlier, that it’s like you don't like hanging out with us. I know it's not true and all – "

 _That shows what you know._ It would've been a zero point answer if he'd put any effort into reaching it at all.

" – but it kinda looks that way, s'all I'm saying." There was another short pause, and then Misaki's voice lowered even further, almost to a mumble. "'Sides, we gotta stick together, right? Homra's Vanguard team."

 _That_ unwelcome reminder made the space beneath Fushimi's left collarbone feel like it was itching - a kind of biting sensation that made him want to reach up and dig his fingernails into it. At first, the placement of the mark - a matched set with Misaki's - had been something of a triumph. They'd successfully passed the installation of the power they'd sought all that time, which helped soothe some of the sting of his earlier failure, and the symmetry felt like a proof that there was a connection between the two of them that wasn't related to soulmates.

It was a short-lived delusion. Misaki's views on soulmates hadn't changed - if anything, the following days and weeks and months made it clear that he considered the marks to be some kind of divine proof that they were soulmates after all. With that question seemingly settled in his brain, he'd clearly moved past it, and the need to prove anything in that sense had been satisfied.

_As if it proves anything... Don't be stupid._

They had never talked about that failed attempt, nor had Misaki tried to get him to do it again. Nothing about their everyday interactions had changed in the slightest, but still, something was different. It was like opening Pandora's box; the inclusion of physical cravings and urges and inclinations he hadn't known he was capable of plagued Fushimi at the most inconvenient times. He knew the taste of Misaki's mouth and the warmth of Misaki's body leaning intimately close, and there were times when he'd look at Misaki's lips or fingers or the slope of his neck and want to touch - want to _feel_...

It was overpowering. Irritating. The want never lost any intensity, even after all this time. Sometimes his body ached with it, and he wasn't sure how to make that feeling stop. It only added to the mess of conflict in his mind when it came to Misaki.

And all the while, it had only taken a pair of Suoh Mikoto's brands in similar spots to satisfy Misaki. There was nothing he needed from Fushimi any more.

_Well, there is one thing..._

Near him, Misaki let out another sigh – softer this time. “Anyway, that’s all,” he muttered, and his weight shifted again, sinking back onto the ladder from where he’d been leaning against the loft. “Night, Saruhiko.”

There was the clatter of movement as he descended the ladder and started to get ready for bed. Fushimi stayed where he was, not moving until he heard the bathroom door open and shut. Then he let out his breath in a long rush, dissatisfaction seeming to prickle at every pore in his body.

It was so irritating…

There was still that one thing, though. Fushimi shifted his knees up further and pulled the cover tighter across his torso reflexively. One thing that Misaki wanted from him that he couldn’t get from Homra or Suoh Mikoto, or anyone else. Fushimi could still hold onto that tiny bit of satisfaction within him, even if it felt like a pale and useless echo of what he’d had in the past.

Even if it was only real because Misaki believed it.

Matching marks or not, there was still no true confirmation of soulmate status between them, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Normally Yata wouldn't have gone back home in the middle of the afternoon, especially not when most of Homra was at the bar, but Totsuka had pointed out that Saruhiko still hadn't showed up yet. They were all trying to show solidarity for the Minato twins, hidden from those stupid Blues, and if Saruhiko wasn't there, it kinda looked like maybe he didn't agree with it.

Which was impossible – this was just how Saruhiko acted sometimes, getting moody or bored – but not everyone knew him as well as Yata did. That was exactly why he'd mentioned it back in the summer, though he wasn't sure if Saruhiko had been awake or not.

 _He probably didn't hear me, right?_ It made sense. That had been over three months ago – if Saruhiko had heard him, he would’ve said something or just quietly changed on his own. And Yata hadn’t exactly brought it up since. He was gonna fix that now.

The early October sun was hanging low enough that the window on the sliding door that led into their building was reflecting light back at him. Yata squinted, pulling up his skateboard just in front of it and grabbing it in one hand. When he reached out to grab the handle, it was sun-warmed, an odd contrast to the chill hanging in the air.

The sweat that had formed on his body from the minor exertion had cooled while he stood outside, but it felt uncomfortably warm again when he stepped inside, the lack of ventilation in the hallway mixing unpleasantly with the sun beaming in relentlessly through the window. It was something of a relief when he swung open the door to their apartment and felt slightly fresher air strike him.

That slight discomfort mixed with his impatience had Yata carelessly calling out, "Saruhiko!" before even stepping over the threshold. He leaned his skateboard against the wall by the entrance as he stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him.

It was noticeably dimmer with the sunlight closed out; Yata blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted. He could see the edge of the glow from the computer screen before he'd even turned the corner and looked up. There was no sound of rapid typing coming from above; when he took in the familiar figure on the loft, Saruhiko was staring blankly at his screen, eyes dull and a small frown on his face. "What, Misaki?" he asked just as Yata was getting ready to call out to him again. He sounded almost bored.

Yata scowled, a bit irritated with the tone. _This is what I get for thinking about you?_ "What are you doing? How come you're not at Homra?"

"Is there some reason I should be?"

The offhand answer caught Yata off-guard; he blinked, staring at Saruhiko's unaltered expression with mild confusion. _Why would you need a reason? We're always there._ "Huh? I mean, everyone is – "

A loud scuffle cut him off; Saruhiko had abruptly shoved his keyboard away from him.

There – he was coming after all. Yata felt a small rush of relief – but it was short-lived as he watched his friend hunch over the desk, showing no signs of moving toward the ladder. _What gives here?_

After a second or so of confused silence, Saruhiko finally mumbled, without looking up, "Why does it matter what 'everyone' is doing?"

"What?" This was getting dumb. Yata let out a sharp breath, heading for the ladder to get up to the loft. "The hell are you talking about, Saruhiko? Everyone's there, so c'mon – don't you wanna hang out?"

His fingers had just closed around the bars when the sound of more shuffling came from above him. When he looked over, it was in time to watch Saruhiko set one hand on the guard at the edge of the loft and hop deftly over.

There was a second of immediate, instinctive alarm before Yata remembered that – right – they were red clansmen now and a jump like that was no big deal. Still, he didn't normally see Saruhiko pulling that kind of stunt often. It was... impulsive. Reckless. Normally, his partner was too cool and calculating for that kind of stuff.

The momentary panic morphed into something completely different as he watched Saruhiko land gracefully, like a thin, lanky cat. Somehow, that move had been really cool, actually. It sparked a little hint of something dangerous in Yata's stomach – a blend of admiration and attraction, and maybe a hint of some of the less innocent feelings he'd been repressing lately.

For that reason, when Saruhiko straightened up, raising his head to look directly at him, Yata felt like his throat was closing up. He swallowed hard, unable to think of anything to say in that single instant.

_He's so..._

All the things that would fit at the end of that thought based on his current mood were way too damn dangerous. Yata's mind raced frantically, looking for the words that would make this situation normal again.

Saruhiko wasn't going to give him that time, apparently. Without changing that dull-eyed, bored expression, he strolled towards where Yata was standing at the ladder, pace unhurried.

Unable to think of any other course of action, Yata half turned to face him as he approached, ending up shifting entirely around with his back towards the ladder as Saruhiko stopped in front of it and faced him, all without saying a word.

The silence was starting to make him nervous. Yata cleared his throat, frowning back a bit defensively. "Wh-what is it?"

"Nothing." Saruhiko drew the word out almost mockingly. He tilted his head to the side, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth, and then abruptly leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bars beside Yata's head. "You still wanted to see if we're soulmates, didn't you, Misaki?"

The words had a small surge of shock sparking out from his core. Yata stared back, not quite believing what he'd heard. _Wait... is he saying...?_ Since that failed attempted, neither of them had even mentioned soulmates. And now out of nowhere, it was coming up? Plus, Saruhiko was so close; it was almost impossible to look away from the cool blue of his eyes. Yata felt a little like he was drowning.

"I – " His voice cracked; he swallowed and tried again. "Yeah! O-of course! I mean, I know we are, but..." Instinctively, he reached up to clench his fingers in the fabric over his left collar. "I-it'd be cool to have the marks, right?"

"Mm." Saruhiko leaned in closer without answering, and Yata's heart seemed to kick up even further, a small ache building in the pit of his stomach. He shut his eyes without thinking as he felt the brush of breath on his face. "Then," Saruhiko mumbled, almost a whisper, and closed the small amount of remaining distance between them.

The moment when lips closed on his was electric. Yata felt a tiny noise escape his throat, but barely paid it any mind, his awareness shifting entirely to the contact between them. A warm shudder ran up along the line of his spine and he pressed into the kiss, his whole body seeming to throb with want.

He was kissing Saruhiko. Actually, Saruhiko was kissing _him_ , with enough force to push his head back against the bar behind it, and Yata found he didn't mind. At all. His head was spinning, pleasant reactive tingling spreading through his body as reality settled in.

He couldn't believe this was happening. It was like a really vivid dream.

_If it is, I don't wanna wake up!_

Saruhiko's tongue prodded at his lips and Yata parted them immediately, inhaling sharply through his nose as they connected, a foreign wet heat invading his own mouth. The slick pressure of tongue ran along the roof of his mouth, his gums...

It was hard to keep up. Yata was vaguely aware that he'd looped his arms around Saruhiko's waist, fingers clenching in the fabric of his hoodie. Saruhiko was being much more aggressive than before, barely giving Yata time to collect himself and adjust to the overwhelming rush of sensation before spurring things onward, almost as if he were impatient for something. His lips moved with his tongue, his breath an erratic fan against Yata’s cheek. It was clumsy and heated and somehow frenzied – he could barely keep up.

_This is…_

There was a telltale ache between his legs; he was strongly aware of it even as his thoughts were swallowed by the warm fog settling over his brain. The fly of Yata's shorts felt gradually tighter as that troublesome part of his body stiffened in response to the pleasant feelings coursing through him. He didn't have time to be embarrassed about it, though, because Saruhiko made a soft hum against his mouth, the vibration seeming to reverberate through Yata's entire frame. In almost the same instant, he leaned in further, bringing their bodies into contact, one of his knees shifting between Yata's thighs.

Something between a gasp and a moan escaped Yata's throat as he felt pressure against the half-hard lump between his legs. It triggered a sharp, sweetly potent sensation that sparked through his body like lightning. The kiss broke with the movement of his mouth, but he didn't even have time to _think,_ much less speak, before Saruhiko was chasing his lips again, and Yata felt the unmistakable press of an answering erection against his hip.

 _Fuck..._ It was going so fast. His head was spinning. It felt like he couldn't breathe; there were too many new feelings, and he couldn't even begin to process it all. His fingers clenched on Saruhiko's hoodie, a tremble starting in his limbs. _Wait - wait..._

No. Almost as soon as that protest formed in his brain, Yata was crushing it ruthlessly. He couldn't wait. This was too important... this was his soulmate... There might not be another chance if –

The thought had barely crossed his mind when contact abruptly ceased. Saruhiko's mouth withdrew from his, the warm pressure of his body lifting. A rush of cold air seemed to immediately move in to occupy the space in his wake.

Yata opened his eyes, still feeling dazed as he blinked at his friend. "Sa.. Saruhiko...?"

The tilt of Saruhiko's head had the light hitting his glasses, just enough to obscure his eyes from sight. There was a noticeable flush on his cheeks; his lips pursed and then twitched down into a frown. He clicked his tongue and reached up to deliberately run the back of his wrist over them, as if to wipe away some unpleasant taste.

 _What's happening?_ The haze over Yata's thoughts was starting to clear, and he felt the warmth that had gathered on his own face intensify as reality set in. He was still hard, body tense in the wake of their contact, but he didn't get what was going on now. And Saruhiko wasn't meeting his gaze, much less explaining. He swallowed almost painfully, and tried again. "Oi, Sar – "

"I changed my mind." The mumble of Saruhiko's voice was slow, but there was a sharp edge behind the words that made it almost resentful. He reached down to pull Yata's still fingers from his clothing, disengaging enough to take a step back, and turned without raising his gaze, expression obscured. "I don't want to."

They were the same words he'd used before, but there was something in them that had an unpleasant sort of dread settling in Yata's stomach. He swallowed again, staring mutely at the back of his friend's head. Somehow, he couldn't think of anything to say.

It didn't even feel like there was anything he _could_ say. The situation was so far out of his control that his head felt like it was reeling. What the hell was going on?

"You wanted to go to Homra, right, Misaki?" That slow, drawling tone was back in Saruhiko's voice. He stepped away, moving towards the bathroom door. "Go ahead. I'll catch up with you in a while."

The soft click as the door closed behind him, cutting him from view, felt somehow final.

Yata slumped back against the ladder, letting out a whoosh of air and feeling as if his strength had momentarily given out. His body was still on edge, vaguely turned on, but the swirling mass of emotion in his head was layered with heavy confusion.

Saruhiko had... had tried to confirm the soulmate bond between them, right? That was what that was about? Yata frowned, trying to sort through it in his head. Somehow it had gone wrong again, but he _still_ couldn't see where. He hadn't pushed. Saruhiko had initiated everything, had taken the lead and been in full control, and still... still he couldn't seem to want to do anything further.

At least, not with Yata.

A tiny but potent spark of hurt flared up in his chest, the ache rising to the back of his throat, and Yata's fingers clenched into fists. He'd been telling himself all along that he was okay with it if Saruhiko didn't see him that way, so it should've been fine, but somehow, it still hurt. Somehow... he still couldn't help but desperately wish that his feelings were returned.

_You really can’t see me that way, huh? It’s impossible for you, isn’t it, Saruhiko?_

Well, they were still soulmates, even if it wasn't confirmed. Yata repeated that thought to himself a few times, trying to recover his optimism. It didn't matter if they had... _that_ kind of relationship. They had a bond. That was the important thing here.

Yata reached up to set his palm over the familiar spot at his collar again, shutting his eyes against the sting behind them. It almost felt like he could feel the lines of the mark through his shirt, burning up against his hand – a solid, comforting reminder of the most important things in his life.

As long as they were still together, the rest didn't matter... right?

 

* * *

 

 

With the adrenaline wearing off, the pain at Fushimi's collar was starting to become borderline unbearable. The nauseating scent of burnt flesh rose up from the mangled mark, nearly choking him. And yet, despite both of those things, he couldn't seem to wipe the twisted grin from his face. His mind was whirling, still not recovered from the high.

The image of Misaki's enraged eyes hadn't left him, and he couldn't help but laugh breathlessly and tip his head back against the back seat of the car, just thinking about it. _There goes your pride... there goes your so-called 'soulmate'..._

He was aware of the driver – a blue clansman he hadn’t been introduced to – shifting uncomfortably in the front, and had a sense that he was being eyed periodically in the rear view mirror. Fushimi ignored him. He’d already brushed off the alarmed offer of medical aide when he’d returned to the vehicle, and he was aware that the impression he was making on this guy wasn’t terribly favorable right now. That could be corrected later once he took on a certain amount of work and was able to prove his ability. At the moment, though, he couldn’t care less.

Misaki had been desperate – furious. Fushimi shut his eyes, breathing slowly as his brain and body were flooded with feelings. _That face he made…_

It wasn’t the sparkling eyes he’d been so proud of, but _these_ eyes delved into his soul. It was invigorating. A new mark of accomplishment and a fitting replacement for what he’d lost. This was the right path. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was.

Despite the fact that he’d come up with the idea on the spot. It wasn’t like him to act on impulse.

 _Well, the result is the same._ Burning the mark had been dual purpose: he was rejecting both Suoh Mikoto's Homra and Misaki's views on soulmates, all at once. The moment when he'd felt the rush of intense pain and watched the anger and hurt in Misaki's eyes melt into shock and horror, it felt like the best kind of gratification.

He'd never felt more alive.

Well... other than maybe one time. When Misaki had kissed him for the first time...

There was no point in thinking about that, honestly. Fushimi clicked his tongue, wincing as he lifted his head and carefully curled the edge of his shirt away from the burn scar to allow it to breathe. The residual longing – for Misaki's touch, Misaki's taste, Misaki's reactions – was nothing but an additional burden. Regardless, the second "attempt" had given him all the confirmation he needed. The one thing that would keep him shining brightly in Misaki's world, unable to be forgotten and discarded regardless of Homra filling all of Misaki's needs.

With the matching mark destroyed, there was nothing to suggest that they were soulmates, and Misaki would never be able to let go of the possibility, even as he learned to hate Fushimi wholeheartedly.

In the front of the car, the driver cleared his throat. “Are you sure you don’t want – ?”

Fushimi clicked his tongue sharply, irritated at having his thoughts interrupted. “There’s a medical station at headquarters, isn’t there? Just drive.”

The man looked vaguely disgruntled, but he didn’t comment further.

 _Good._ There was no point in interacting with these people. He wasn’t joining Scepter 4 to make friends. That was a pointless business in the first place – look at how well it had worked the first time he’d done it.

 _Well, that’s been fixed, hasn’t it?_ The old hint of an ache that had started to build when he’d told Misaki that he was leaving was lost in the heat of their exchange. In the heat of Misaki’s aura surrounding his body – the heat that had filled his voice when he’d passionately declared that he would kill Fushimi.

The prospect of Misaki chasing after him, burning gaze fixed on him with murderous intent, was invigorating. After nearly a year of not being needed for anything aside from half-hearted company when nothing else was available, the furious rage that Misaki directed at him now made his body tremble with anticipation.

_What will I be to you now, Misaki? The so-called ‘soulmate’ that got away?_

_"Fucking traitor!"_

Another little burst of laughter escaped his throat, and Fushimi's smile widened. He carefully pried his fingers from the collar of his shirt again, allowing it to cover the mangled mark. It was nearly agonizing when the fabric brushed against his open wound, but he didn't mind it.

_This is how it has to be, isn't it?_

With all the satisfaction and the certainty that filled him as the car sped him away from his past at Homra and towards his future at Scepter 4, Fushimi still couldn't help but see the overlaying images of Misaki's eyes, one set filled with burning rage and the other brimming with hurt and desperate confusion.

And somehow, there was still a bitter edge that curled in the core of his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! An extra chapter this week in honor of 2017.
> 
> This chapter contains references to things that happen in ch 10 and 11 of the Memory of Red manga (In the Cellar - part one and part two), set before season one.

"You're looking tired, Yata-chan," Kusanagi remarked, breaking Yata out of the half-doze he'd fallen into in his seat at the bar. When he looked up, a wry smile met his gaze, the reflection of the afternoon sun and the colors from the moving walls glinting from the sunglasses above it. "Sure you don't want to wait for this housewarming party? You need a couple days to settle in, right?"

Yata straightened, managing a small grin despite his weariness. "Nah, it's fine! I'm good!" He didn't have to fake it when he leaned forward with enthusiasm. "I've been looking forward to this!"

For more reason than just one. Saruhiko had left... rejecting Homra, rejecting Yata, rejecting _everything_... just a little more than a month ago. Since then, it had been impossible to sleep in the old apartment; the memories started to overwhelm him, and the ache filled his body, leaving him restless. Kusanagi had been generous enough to both allow him to stay a few nights in the basement of the bar and to help him find a new apartment with rent that could be afforded by a part-timer who'd dropped out of middle school. Moving so quickly had been tiring, but... he needed it.

If he stopped to think about it for too long, his thoughts led him into a tangle of confusion and hurt. Dwelling on it left him in worse shape than trying to pretend it hadn't happen. He couldn't sleep, and he _knew_ he wasn't performing as well as he could for Mikoto's sake.

More than anything, that gave him incentive to get past this. He _had_ to. Homra was his life. His reason for existing. Everything that made him who he was tied him to this place and these people.

Well, almost everything – but it wasn't like he had a soulmate by his side now anyway...

"How is the new place, anyway?" Kusanagi asked him, setting a cigarette between his lips.

"Good! I got my own bathroom, even." That was one of the things Saruhiko had insisted on for their old place, and it wasn't easy to find for cheap. Once again, he really had a lot to be thankful to his older friend for. "Kinda nice that it's smaller, y'know? Less..." He waved a hand, not sure how to get across his feelings on this one. "... space."

Less memories. Less emptiness. Less loss.

Kusanagi gave him a sympathetic look, but didn't comment. "Well, glad to hear it." He hesitated, seeming to think about adding more, but the door opened behind them before he could.

"We're back!" Totsuka's cheery voice announced to the room, accompanied by a rush of crisp November air. He was turning to grin back over his shoulder as Yata looked up. "Bring it over this way, King!"

"Mikoto-san!" Yata brightened at once, straightening automatically as his hero stepped in across the threshold, Anna trailing behind with one small hand clenched on his jacket. "What did you... ?"

His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the bundle in Mikoto's hands – and not so much out of surprise that his King of all people would be carrying a bouquet of flowers. Yata's eyes were immediately drawn to the tiny blue and white flowers that dotted the arrangement, accenting and contrasting the larger blossoms that made up the bulk of it.

_"Fine." Saruhiko sighed more than spoke the word. He held his bundle out, the delicate blue petals nearly touching the tiny white buds in Yata’s hand._

_Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and then the blue flowers were in Yata's hands and the white in Saruhiko's. Somehow, observing the exchange had warmth building in Yata's chest; he grinned back, unable to keep it inside. "Thanks!"_

_"It doesn't matter to me, so I don't need thanks."_

That had been such a 'Saruhiko' thing to say. Yata almost found himself smiling over it now, and had to fight back a fierce lump that tried to rise at the back of his throat. He blinked rapidly, trying to push back the sting that came with the memory.

_Those flowers really matched up well, huh?_

Then again, he'd thought that Saruhiko had matched up well with him too, back then.

"Earth to Yata!" A hand waved in front of his face, and then Totsuka's smile entered his line of sight. "Are you getting enough sleep? I think you just about dozed off mid-sentence!"

"Eh? Oh." He managed a sheepish grin in return. _Just forget about that stuff._ "Sorry! I'm fine – just thinking, y'know?"

"About the new place?" Totsuka's smile was guileless, but somehow Yata got the impression he'd been seen through. "Well, that's understandable – and, oh, that reminds me. King!" He turned and waved in Mikoto's direction. "You still have to give Yata our housewarming gift."

"Yeah." Mikoto moved as if to take a step forward, halting when Anna gave his jacket an urgent little tug. He tilted his head down at her. "You wanna take these?"

Anna nodded her head.

"All right." The flowers were lowered to her height.

She grasped the wrapping of the bouquet in both hands and stepped up to Yata's seat at the bar. "Misaki." The flowers were presented to him, a serious expression on her delicate little face. "Congratulations."

"A-ah? For me?" Yata could feel his face growing hot – seriously, flowers? He wasn't a girl, after all... But then again, he couldn't really say anything bad with Anna giving him that earnest look as she held them out. He took them from her as carefully as possible, smiling back awkwardly. "Th-thanks, Anna!"

"Tatara and I picked them," she reported - and, after a brief pause, added, "Mikoto helped."

Totsuka chuckled. "In his own way."

"Really?" That at least had him straightening in his seat – if his King had helped to pick the flowers out, he'd gladly accept them. Yata found himself grinning, spirits raised. "Thanks!"

"Don't mention it," Totsuka answered cheerily, taking a seat beside him at the bar.

Mikoto offered him a small edge of a smile before reaching up to take the remains of his cigarette from between his lips. He stepped up to put it out on the tray Kusanagi had set on the bar earlier.

Yata eyed him for a second, searching over what small amount of skin he was exposing in hopes of catching a glimpse of the soulmate mark that Totsuka had been talking about before. He still couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea of someone being able to match up to Mikoto, of all people – who could be that awesome? The soulmate mark had to be super cool!

But even if it was, he _still_ couldn't manage to catch a glimpse of it.

Maybe Totsuka had just been teasing him. Yata tried to shrug it off, turning his gaze on the flowers instead. The bulk of them were red and pink roses, with the smaller flowers filling in the gaps between the larger ones and also nestled around the edges to create contrast. The pale blue color of the tiny blossoms that Saruhiko had traded with him back at the beginning of their last year of school almost looked purple in this arrangement.

Without thinking, he reached out a finger to touch one gently, like he'd done while walking home on his own that day. His mother had put them in water for a few days afterwards, and then they'd vanished – probably thrown out after they started to wilt. He hadn’t paid much attention back then, too busy actually _being with_ Saruhiko to get sentimental over stuff like flowers.

Staring at them now, he could almost remember exactly what it was like back then, when things had been easy. When he could see those fleeting smiles and content looks on Saruhiko’s face and take pride in the fact that he was the cause. When they worked together as partners and they shared those _looks_ , smiling with their eyes and knowing they had a perfect understanding of each other. When he could feel that unmistakable presence at his side – when he could reach out his hand and feel it brush against Saruhiko’s cool one. When he was happy and secure with the thought that Saruhiko was his soulmate and they'd never separate.

_Hah-fucking-hah._

"You like forget-me-nots?" Totsuka's voice cut into his thoughts yet again; when he looked up, he was being studied curiously. "I thought they were a nice touch, too."

"Eh? Uh..." Yata felt his cheeks warm again, and waved a hand quickly. "N-not really! These ones – and the white ones, too – they were just in our senior year photos, that's all."

"Oh? Yours and Fushimi's, huh?" Totsuka's gaze was warm and understanding. "The white ones are called lily-of-the-valley – that's what the store clerk said, anyway."

"Ah... oh." Inwardly, Yata cursed himself for saying 'our' again - he was having trouble getting out of the habit when talking about his past. Honestly, he hadn't realized how many of his experiences – how many good times – were all shared with Saruhiko until this stuff started coming up. He cleared his throat around another of those pesky lumps, hoping to change the subject. "Well, it's not really a big – "

"Oh, I just remembered!" Totsuka snapped his fingers, brightening. "There was a story about those two flowers, wasn't there?" He didn't wait for a response, leaning forward against the bar counter. "Kusanagi-san, you were the one who told me about it – how'd it go again?"

"Was I?" Kusanagi shook his head, a bit of a rueful smile on his face. "I don't remember that, honestly..."

Anna had pulled herself up onto a stool, and leaned forward in much the same way Totsuka had. "Izumo," she prompted.

"Well... I guess I might remember a couple of the details." He brought a hand up to his face, looking thoughtful. "Let's see..."

Despite himself, Yata was a bit interested; he turned in his seat, setting the flowers carefully on the surface of the bar as he gave his older friend full attention.

"From what I remember, the flowers all had some kind of party for the turning of the season," Kusanagi started. "Forget-me-not and Lily-of-the-valley were a princess and a prince who met there and fell in love. At first sight and all that – you know the way these things go." He shrugged. "But forget-me-nots are a spring flower and lily-of-the-valley only blooms in the summer. They could only meet once a year when the seasons crossed." That came with another wry smile. "These kinds of loves tend to end up like that, I guess."

Something about the story didn't sit well; Yata frowned back, a little unsettled at the abruptness of it. "The hell? That's pretty depressing, y'know..."

Kusanagi shook his head. "I didn't write the story, Yata-chan."

"Yeah, but still, c'mon!" He let out a sharp breath, dissatisfied. "That's not really how it ends, is it? They just can't meet at all, except once a year?" Turning his head towards the girl beside him, he urged, "Anna probably wants more too, right?"

A tiny nod answered his inquiry. Yata turned back, triumphant. "There, see?"

"Mm. I'm not sure if I'm remembering it all, to be honest." Kusanagi shrugged, meeting Anna's expectant gaze with a slightly apologetic smile. "I'll see if I can find the book one of these days, all right?"

Yata slouched in his seat, barely appeased. His eyes were drawn again to the blue and white blossoms in his bouquet, and he felt his frown deepen, a tiny ache stirring to life at the back of his chest once again. "Lame..."

"Not every story needs a happy ending," Kusanagi pointed out, raising an eyebrow when Yata turned his baleful gaze up. "Perhaps the moral here is that 'true love' only takes you so far. At some point, personal choice and hard work are going to play into it. Right?"

That wasn't really much help. Yata shook his head. "Think they were soulmates?"

There was a brief, almost startled pause. "Does it matter?"

Yata blinked at him, taken off-guard. "Of course!” It should’ve been obvious, right? Without thinking, he confidently added, “If they're soulmates, they'd be able to get around any kinda trouble no problem, wouldn't they?"

From the couch, Mikoto made what sounded like a self-deprecating chuckle. "Is that how it works?"

"Mikoto-san?" Yata turned to stare at him, confused. His King had a small, humorless smile on his face, eyes closed as he took a long drag from his cigarette. He didn’t open them even as he breathed out, smoke clouding his expression.

The reaction didn’t make sense. _But… you've got an awesome soulmate. Right?_

"Well, maybe being soulmates wouldn't help so much in this case," Totsuka pointed out lightly. He offered a bright smile when Yata turned back. "Anyway, these are flowers we're talking about, right? They might not have soulmates at all."

"Yeah, right." That cleared up the weird mood, at least a little. Yata managed a sheepish grin back. "Sorry. That was kinda dumb of me, huh?"

It was obviously where this stuff was coming from, and just as obvious that he needed to get over it already. It had been over a month. Saruhiko wasn't coming back - wasn't gonna realize suddenly how much those Blues sucked and how great Homra was. Wasn't planning to stand by Yata's side and be his partner the way they'd always talked about, or his soulmate the way he’d always hoped. He wasn't sure where it had gone wrong, but it was final – as final as the fact that Saruhiko didn't feel the same way about Yata that Yata had always felt about him. There was no point hoping for anything from that guy – he was a traitor and an asshole, and the sooner Yata kicked his ass, the better.

And still... there was that small side of him that he couldn’t quite silence. The side that still remembered all of Saruhiko's rare smiles and his soft mumbling as he outlined his clever responses to all of Yata's crazy ideas. The side that kept him up on those long nights, staring up at the bottom of the loft in their shared apartment and trying not to cry or to scream with furious frustration. The side that just couldn't accept that things could be over after so many years of happiness. The side that believed Saruhiko would surely come back one day. Back to Homra, and Yata.

He tried to repress it as much as possible, but it was fucking hard.

“Not really,” Totsuka answered him. “You’re an idealist, Yata. I think sometimes your view of the world is brighter than the rest of ours.” His smile softened a bit. “Maybe there’s times when things aren’t as clear as you’re thinking, though.”

Yata blinked and then frowned, struggling with that for a moment. It felt like there was probably something deep behind it – though it was hard to say with Totsuka sometimes – but he couldn’t figure out what. “I don’t really get it,” he admitted after a second, offering a shrug and a rueful smile. “I’m not real big on that ‘unclear’ stuff, anyway – I’ll just follow Mikoto-san.” That brightened his spirits again – he had a real purpose here, after all. “That’s Yatagarasu’s reason for existing, right?” He clenched his fists with enthusiasm, letting his grin widen. “Keeping up Homra’s greatness!”

“Whoa – so cool, Yata!” Totsuka praised him heartily, and Yata felt his heart warm.

This was where he belonged – these were the people he belonged with. Nothing else mattered. Not even his soulmate. Not even _Saruhiko_.

It helped if he kept repeating that to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Fushimi hadn’t made a particular effort to run into Misaki. He was kept busy enough at Scepter 4, after all – in addition to his regular work as part of the Intelligence division, Munakata seemed to think of him on a regular basis regarding all manner of complicated or troublesome jobs. There was no time to be idle or to seek out unnecessary incidents.

For the most part, he preferred it that way. When he was busy, he didn’t have time to dwell on Misaki’s reactions – both the ones he had lost and the ones he’d seemingly gained. Gradually, over the weeks, he grew numb to the absence of that enormous presence in his life. He got used to waking up alone – to the lack of lively chatter and expressive smiles and general warm chaos that had filled his life for that brief, ultimately doomed period of his life.

He tucked back any evidence of the ache of loss in his soul and worked until late at night on whatever was handy so that he wouldn’t spend too much time alone with his thoughts before giving in to sleep.

There were still times when it was unavoidable and thoughts of Misaki haunted him. Fushimi’s memory was exceptional, but when it came to Misaki the recollections were clearer than most. He could see the way Misaki’s emotions reflected on his face with perfect clarity, even after months of not having a visual reference. The way his eyes seemed to shine when he was excited, the warm amber in his pupils seeming to intensify. How his lips turned up from that natural downturn into a smile so wide it should’ve been impossible. The wicked curl it took and the way his eyebrows came down when he was caught up in a moment of recklessness.  Rather than dwell on any of that, Fushimi felt it was easier to manipulate the direction of his thoughts. If he was going to think of Misaki anyway, then he would draw up the image of those burning eyes in his mind’s eye. That rage, that passion, that _singular focus_. It was intoxicating enough to overpower the others. In those moments, he would smile to himself as anticipation rushed in to fill the gaps in his heart that had been left as casualties of believing in something as banal as friendship.

Sooner or later, they were bound to meet; he didn’t have to rush it.

He was right about that – a little over a year after his initiation ceremony, Munakata requested his assistance in tracking and dealing with a drug-trafficking strain with night vision powers, working under the codename ‘Mole’.

A strain who conveniently happened to be operating in Homra’s territory.

It was Misaki’s involvement that led to the series of screw-ups resulting in the two of them not only alerting Mole to their presence but also to their being blasted through the floor into an uncharted tunnel with no cell service. Misaki always had that effect on him – blurring his senses, making him lose himself. It never led to anything good in the end. To make matters worse, Fushimi had managed to injure his leg, and Misaki was dumb enough to fuss over him even now – which he told himself was pointless even as his muscles tensed and something within him tightened, mingled discomfort and pleasure creeping into his awareness as a result of the attention.

_I don’t need it._ But even after he’d said as much, nothing seemed to change.

“… Hey.” Misaki’s voice was quiet, his eyes hidden by the rim of his beanie as he kept his face turned down to focus on the wound he was tying off on Fushimi’s leg. His fingers were rough, but his touch was gentle – much the way Fushimi remembered it. “Can I ask you one thing?”

_You’ll ask anyway, even if I say no._ The thought was involuntary – a casually and swiftly selected product from his store of knowledge about Misaki’s habits and behavior. Fushimi was silent, still moderately unsettled by the way Misaki had gruffly taken charge of looking after him.

The mood of this encounter was wrong – it had been wrong from the start. He hadn’t expected to see Misaki in the first place. Somehow, when they’d broken that window in their confused scuffle at the start and light had flooded into Mole’s darkened hideout, seeing his former partner’s familiar, shocked face had momentarily paralyzed him. It felt like every inch of his skin had prickled, and the burn scar that he’d not allowed to heal properly had flared up, the sting seeping directly to his bones.

_Misaki…_

He hadn’t even been able to properly draw out the barbs and taunts he’d crafted in his head previously, falling back instead on half-hearted scorn once he’d composed himself. It was that lack of focus – the sudden rush that had come with their unexpected meeting – that he blamed their current failure state on.

“Why…” Misaki tipped his head further forward, still braced on his knees by Fushimi’s wounded leg. “… did you betray us?” His hands, clenched into fists by his lap, trembled; his voice rose in volume a little, throbbing with that familiar, rich emotion that characterized it. “Always… I never understood, but I wondered.” He took in a shaky breath and added, “Since I didn’t know, I was even more annoyed…”

_Of course you were. Of course you didn’t understand._ Agitation was building already beneath Fushimi’s skin. He didn’t want to sit here another second and listen to Misaki talk like… that. Like he couldn’t even manage to be angry. It made Fushimi’s fingers twitch with an impulse he wanted to suppress, not even knowing what course of action tugged at him. The best thing to do would be to stand right now, brush off Misaki’s questions with mocking half-truths and bring them back to a standing he was comfortable with.

Even as he was shifting to do just that, his brain took the liberty of sneaking another half-formed notion into his consciousness that caused him to freeze in place.

_Of course he’s not angry – he still thinks we’re soulmates._

He was still processing that when Misaki raised his head, eyebrows bunched together and eyes dark with desperation. “What was Homra to you?” he demanded, passionate frustration laced in every word.

_… Tedious._ Fushimi clenched his teeth. He wasn’t sure if the thought was in answer to the question or just his reaction to what was always – _always_ – on Misaki’s mind. Possibly both. Forcibly drawing himself back until control, he ignored the open question, responding instead with his own: “Do you still have some delusion that we’re _soulmates_ , Misaki?” Lowering his lids and allowing himself a small, mocking smile, he added, “Is that why you’re helping me?”

The derailing had the desired effect; Misaki’s eyes widened and he flinched back, as if Fushimi had moved to hit him.

_Not that he’d flinch if I was hitting him…_ Words were more effective.

It took only a few seconds for Misaki to compose himself. His eyes narrowed, going flat and serious, and his lips turned down into a frown. When he responded, his voice was low and heated. “That’s got nothing to do with this!”

The lack of immediate denial was enough of a response. Fushimi clicked his tongue, somehow dissatisfied despite having predicted correctly. “What? You’re still holding onto that delusion? You must a complete idiot.”

Even in the dim light from the torch, he could see the darker color spreading on Misaki’s cheeks. “Shut up! Not like it’s your business what I think.” His eyes were flashing, a mix of hurt and anger and confusion. “You fucking _left_ , asshole!”

_That’s right._ This was more like it. Fushimi could feel that invigorating rush spreading along his veins, causing a light buzz to run through his body. The scar at his collar throbbed in furious counterpart, and he allowed the smile to spread on his face. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Hearing the truth, I mean.” He let out a small huff of a laugh. “Don’t you get tired of being in denial, Misaki?”

“I said _shut up!_ ” At that, Misaki actually grabbed his collar and leaned in, the anger in his eyes momentarily overpowering the other emotions. “The hell do _you_ know about that stuff, anyway?” he snarled. “You don’t believe in a single goddamn thing!”

“So?” This was good – that gaze was fierce and passionate. Fushimi felt almost drunk on it. His smile widened further, fueled by something almost manic within him. “Confirm it for yourself.” He reached up to run a finger along the opposite line of his shirt collar from where Misaki’s fist was clenched, pausing deliberately to trace a circle where the mangled mark was hidden. The resulting catch of breath was sharp and immediate, reaching his ears almost before he saw Misaki’s eyes go wide and then narrow even further, wavering with emotion. Fushimi hummed mockingly, lowering his eyelids to half-mast as he returned that desperate glare. “Unless you really are too worried to find out that the person who betrayed your precious Homra isn’t your soulmate after all?”

The taunt seemed to push him past the breaking point. With an agitated sound that came out much like a growl, Misaki violently tugged at Fushimi’s collar, jerking forward to aggressively bring their lips together.

_There it is…_ The adrenaline that had been building in Fushimi’s body abruptly spiked, as if he’d suddenly gone up in flames. Misaki’s scent was all around him, Misaki’s breath hitting his face in ragged erratic bursts, and Misaki’s lips against his, warm and fierce and desperate.

It took his breath away. A low noise escaped him, and Fushimi could barely register the sensation of it vibrating in his throat, much less summon up any annoyance over the slip. He’d forgotten how strong the feeling was – how good it felt to have Misaki _just like this_.

The contact was not as harsh as he would’ve expected; even with his pride and fury driving him, somehow Misaki still managed that signature mix of rough and gentle. His mouth fit fervently against Fushimi’s, eyes closed tightly and fingers trembling noticeably where they were still clenched in the fabric of the white work shirt. When his tongue engaged, it was tentative in seeking access, as if he were somehow uncertain of how welcome the more intimate touch would be. Still, Fushimi parted his lips, pressing back, and Misaki made a small, raw sound in response as their mouths opened to each other.

_Yes._ Intoxicating was the word. Overwhelming. Fushimi breathed out sharply through his nose, reaching up without thinking to slide his fingers along the fine hairs at Misaki’s nape and hold him firmly in place as their tongues met, slick and heated. _Misaki…_

It felt like an eternity – or an instant – before their lips parted, slow and reluctant. Misaki's eyes were clouded with desire when they met his, and somehow the sight played into the swirling mass of confusion and longing in his own head.

How long since he'd _wanted_ like this, fervently and passionately? He could barely remember.

Misaki made another of those little sounds, frustration and longing present in tone when he murmured, " _Saruhiko..._ " His voice had none of the rage from before, but that deep, unrestrained emotion was still present. When he reached up to brace his free hand on Fushimi's shoulder, even the hesitant touch felt scorching.

It was suffocating but addicting, that feeling.

_Only Misaki..._

A faint shuffling drew his attention, the unmistakable step of someone attempting to go unnoticed, and Fushimi stiffened, the hazy bubble that seemed to have enclosed the two of them bursting at once and all of his senses on alert. Misaki seemed to realize it in the same moment, eyes going alternately wide and then narrowing, just before there was the click of a gun cocking.

They dove at almost the same moment, just as the shot rang out in that previously quiet space, and Fushimi came to a crouch ready for action, trusting without looking that Misaki had done the same. It was a moment of unquestioning synchronization.

How ironic…

"Crap..." Misaki hastily retrieved the torch and flung it, revealing the hooded form of their adversary for just a moment. "It's Mole!"

That brief moment was enough; acting on instinct, Fushimi flicked several of his knives free of their holsters and flung them, causing another pause in the shots being fired, before diving after Misaki to the back of the crates in the tunnel.

Now that his mind was clear, awareness of his own carelessness was sinking in. _I got carried away._ Even as he focused his thoughts on the immediate problem, the edge of frustration plagued him. The purpose had been to goad Misaki into action and pull back, but somehow, he'd lost sight of that in the middle of that rush of _feeling_.

_Stupid._ Irritation threaded sharply into Fushimi's thoughts, and he clicked his tongue sharply, not bothering to hide it. One moment of weakness could have brought everything he'd managed to build tumbling down.

He didn't want Misaki's half-hearted feelings. What he wanted...

What he wanted was...

The memory of those burning eyes still held out strongly in his mind's eye, more clear and meaningful than any unsettled longing or tension. _It doesn't matter, does it?_ There was no path left other than the one he'd set out for himself.

Once they crushed Mole, he'd do the same for this tentative thing in his hands as well.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time that Yata clashed with Saruhiko after the incident with Mole ended up setting the pattern for just about every future encounter they had.

It was nearly a year and a half since Saruhiko had left Homra – a year and a half, and Yata still had the blind hope beating in his chest that things could turn around. He tried to crush that urge as much as possible, but it haunted him randomly. When he stumbled across a picture from the past. When he saw a blue clansman. When he came across the contact in his PDA that he couldn't manage to make himself delete. Memories of Saruhiko were everywhere; he could trip over them if he wasn't careful.

And Saruhiko had made his feelings clear as fucking day, even if the reasons behind them were still a mystery. Bitter frustration nearly overpowered Yata whenever he thought about how things had gone in Mole’s tunnel. That kiss had caused the hope and longing within him to spike, his feelings for Saruhiko leading him to blindly believe that things would be fixed between them after all. It had really felt like there had been a response – something that had resonated with the desire that had clouded his thoughts and filled his body to the brim. Saruhiko’s mouth had been active against his, responsive and urgent in his movements. There had been heat between them – a connection that Yata had wanted to grasp at with both hands and cling to.

_All of that, and still…_ Once his emotions were worked up to a fever pitch, with his heart racing in his chest as he looked up for a reaction, everything had been smashed in an instant with a mocking smile and disdainful words. Worse, Saruhiko had lowered his collar to show off the remains of his mark – the other half of the set that had meant everything to Yata – and the sight of the angry burn scar searing out the neat lines of Homra’s symbol had etched itself into his memory with a cruel precision.

It was a painful counterpoint to the already fucked up scene in his head from a year ago.

He couldn’t even think about it without that ache returning, full force. His heart felt too raw. It was obvious Saruhiko didn’t want anything to do with him, other than to mess with his head. Yata had been stupid for thinking otherwise, even for just that short time.

_The hell did I do to make you hate me so much?_ He couldn’t understand, no matter how hard he tried. Why the hell was it so easy for Saruhiko to turn his back on Homra – on their obvious soulmate connection – on the things that made up Yata’s whole being? Everything had seemed fine before…

The easiest way he'd found to deal with the painful emotions and blind, stubborn hope was with rage. _Fuck that traitor!_ The fire burning within him rose up eagerly in response to the call. _I'll beat the shit out of him!_ His aura's song rang out in all corners of his soul, demanding violence. _He's not my soulmate, goddamnit!_

The last one still felt hollow, no matter how many times he repeated it.

In general these days, though, thinking of Saruhiko left him hollow. Fury was all he could think of to fill in the space. That edge of bitterness, frustration, and confusion never left, but at least he couldn't hear the persistent call of hope at the back of it all.

Either way, Homra was busier than ever, and he was Yatagarasu before anything else. It wasn't unusual for him to be scouting ahead for a bust on some violent gang or drug ring operating in Homra's territory.

Or in this case, a smuggling operation for goods extorted in other regions of the city.

_None of these assholes have any business pulling that shit on Mikoto's turf!_ Yata pushed his foot into the ground hard, picking up more speed on his board as he raced for the warehouse in question. _They think they're so tough 'cause they're strains... That's nothing to Homra!_

When he approached the warehouse itself, he slowed. Not out of caution or any need for stealth – that wasn't his style – but definitely out of surprise. There weren't any guys posted on the outside of the building, and no sign of patrol. It was like the place was deserted.

_They jumped ship?_ Yata frowned, briefly mulling it over. It wasn't impossible, but he doubted there'd be any tip-off that Homra was onto them. Kusanagi had been doing this for ages, and he knew how to cover his tracks.

_Doesn't matter anyway._ Impatience and anticipation spurred him on – he was feeling hot-blooded and restless with the promise of a fight, and he wasn't gonna waste time sitting there thinking about it. He'd find out when he got inside. Shaking off the last bit of uncertainty, Yata pushed off again on his board, heading for the large, closed warehouse doors.

He didn't bother to even check if they were unlocked, expending a bit of aura to burst right through and roll inside before encasing himself with red to cover his ass in case of enemy fire. It was a trick that had worked a few times in the past. As he sped in, he braced himself for the start of the action, checking his surroundings for opponents.

Nothing. The warehouse was still and quiet, the air stale and muggy from the early summer heat outside, with nothing in sight but large crates stacked towards the back and along the sides of the huge, empty space. The only light came from the late afternoon sun beaming in through the door Yata had just broken through.

_What the hell?_

Through the silence of the seemingly empty building, a familiar mocking voice rolled in. "Is that flashy entrance meant to compensate for some other deficiency, Misaki?"

The sound of it had Yata's breath catching in his throat, almost choking him. He tried to recover himself quickly, whipping his head up as his eyes narrowed, and caught it just as his former best friend stepped out from the shadows cast by some of the boxes to his right. "Saruhiko!"

"What a coincidence that Homra would also target this place." There was a lazy smirk on Saruhiko's face, but his eyes were sharp behind his glasses. "Don't tell me that _all_ of you are coming here, Misaki. These small fry barely took a handful of one of our squads to subdue."

Yata clenched his teeth, focusing on his irritation to avoid the swelling of emotion within him. "None of your damn business! And quit using that name already!" It wasn’t like they were close now. Hell, it had been a long time since they'd even met. And this wasn't the Saruhiko he wanted to see. The one he wanted was someone he'd only caught glimpses of at their last meeting, and he wasn't sure how much of that was his own wishful thinking. "The hell are you Blues doing here, anyway?" he snapped, drawing himself up. "This is Homra's turf!"

"Is it?" Saruhiko let his eyes go lidded, smirk widening as he drew the words out. "That meaningless territorial crap doesn't make a difference to Scepter 4, you know. Strains were involved here, and that makes it our business." He raised both eyebrows. "But then I suppose you wouldn't know anything about business, would you, _Misaki_?” The name came out with deliberate emphasis. “Seeing as how Homra just lounges about until some stupid group manages to irritate your lazy King...”

"Don't you talk about Mikoto-san like that!" Yata squeezed his hands into fists, feeling the fury building within him and allowing it to spread like the heat of his aura. "As if a traitor like you has the right to even mention him!"

"What?" Saruhiko let out a small, deranged-sounding chuckle. "Are you worried, Misaki? You think your pride will be damaged just because I used the name of your precious Mikoto-san in vain?" He tilted his head, still smirking in that infuriating way. "Or maybe it's because you can't reconcile someone your _feelings_ told you was your soulmate talking poorly about the thug you blindly wag your tail at?"

"Shut up!" At that, Yata could feel his aura building around him, furious red igniting on his skin. "Stop talking like that! Stop saying that name! You're not my soulmate! You're nothing but a traitor!"

"Ah..." Saruhiko made a low, mocking hum. "Maybe so, but _you_ still believe it, don't you, _Misaki_?"

It was the truth of it that cut into him more than the taunt. Yata kicked off the ground on his skateboard, rushing towards his opponent in a blind rage. " _Shut up!_ " he bellowed, aiming directly for Saruhiko's face with his flaming fist.

He was dodged easily, and had to block three of Saruhiko's knives by rolling back and flipping his board up, putting himself in a defensive stance and allowing Saruhiko the chance to draw his sword. The emergency sword draw was announced in a breathless, gleeful tone, and Saruhiko huffed a mocking laugh. "Maybe I am your soulmate, Misaki... Can't I predict your moves well?"

Yata snarled wordlessly at him, dropping his defensive stance and shifting effortlessly back onto his board again for another rush attack. It felt like his vision narrowed down to the obnoxious blue coat on Saruhiko's thin frame; this time he aimed a kick at Saruhiko's midsection, spun with it as he was dodged again and followed up by ducking under the sabre to try for an uppercut.

It connected solidly, which was enough of a surprise that Yata reeled back instinctively, his anger abruptly tempered by the sensation of bone against his fist and the sudden spark of fear and panic in his brain. _I hurt him?_

There was no time to regret or even examine where that thought had come from, because Saruhiko immediately followed up the advantage created by that moment of indecision and kneed him in the stomach. The combined pain and shock knocked the breath out of him, and Yata barely kept on his board, reeling back to briefly regroup.

Saruhiko laughed again breathlessly, his eyes alight with a manic glee. He barely seemed to have noticed the angry red mark on his jaw. "Or," he drawled, reaching his free hand up deliberately towards the collar of his shirt, "maybe I destroyed that, too."

He could’ve looked away. Could’ve, but didn’t. Yata felt frozen in place, following the movement with a kind of sick dread. He knew exactly what he was going to see, but somehow it was like his brain wanted to punish him, forcing him to stand still and stupid as the fabric of Saruhiko’s shirt was pulled back to reveal his mangled Homra mark.

And everything came rushing back, striking him hard.

That memory haunted him more than anything; over a year later, he could see it clear as day, Saruhiko's flaming hand rising to engulf the mark that Yata had taken such pride in. The rush of panic and shock and sick horror as he saw Saruhiko's face twist with pain and then settle into a kind of warped smile, eyes almost crazed, was still sharp and immediate in his brain. It was like he could redo the entire scene but still only react in the same helpless way.

Once again, it was easier to let rage overwhelm him than to give in to that pain. “ _Saru_ ,” Yata growled out, fists clenching and eyes narrowing dangerously as he let his aura burst free, engulfing him fully again. Every nerve ending on his body cried out for action. Satisfaction. _Violence._

_You’re not my soulmate, traitor!_

With a wordless roar, Yata raced for his opponent, his body acting on impulse as he struck with fists and feet, following relentlessly when Saruhiko ducked and taking advantage of the additional speed his board offered as he both took and received hits. Cuts and bruises were landed on his skin, but he barely felt the pain. His brain was on fire; all he could see in his mind was the mangled remains of that mark, and his soul cried out for vengeance.

Outside of it all, he could hear the breathless sound of Saruhiko's laughter, and it only fanned the flames of his rage.

" _I'll kill you!_ "

" _Yata!_ "

The sharp interjection of Kusanagi's voice cutting through the noise from their fight abruptly snapped him to attention. Yata swung back on his board, disengaging instinctively. His adrenaline was still at a fever pitch; he kept his eyes on Saruhiko's blue-clad body, feeling like all the blood in his veins was screaming at him to continue. "But... Kusanagi-san..."

"That's enough, Yata." It wasn't Kusanagi who answered this time, but a deeper, more evenly toned voice. Yata's head whipped back instantly this time, his skin prickling and dread forming into a knot in his stomach as he met his King's steady gaze.

"M-Mikoto-san..." Dropping his head immediately, Yata rolled backwards and further from the fight, his whole body feeling the surge of guilt and shame. "Sorry."

How could he have lost himself so much that he'd disappointed his King? Yata hung his head further, unable to sort the waves of blending and complicated emotions that crashed within his body as he felt mortification spreading out across all of it. His hands, still clenched into fists at his sides, shook. He hadn’t been able to help it. It was like he lost a part of himself in Saruhiko’s presence. There was nothing but helpless impulses and want.

And all of it unreciprocated.

The ache that sprang up in response to that fact only frustrated him further. When was he going to let it go already?

“Long time no see, Fushimi,” Kusanagi said conversationally. Yata glanced at him, and noticed he was casually holding a hand out as a wordless instruction to the obviously steaming clansmen behind him. There was something of a hard look in his eyes. “I take it you’ve hauled off our opponents then, have you?”

The sound of Saruhiko's tongue clicking sharply with annoyance cut through the tension in the air; Yata heard the grating of the sabre being sheathed and turned with a narrowed gaze. It was not returned, but the expression on his former friend’s face was wary and watchful. “Sorry. I’m afraid you’ll have to make due with just me if your thugs are feeling violent.”

Several of Yata’s friends made bristling noises at that; there was a murmur of discontent. Yata felt his muscles tensing despite the earlier order, the urge to respond to the mood settling in the room tugging at him.

It bothered him that he wasn’t sure what kind of response he’d make…

“Now, now, there’s no need to be like that!” Totsuka’s bright voice broke through the muttering; he pushed his way to Mikoto’s side. “Nobody here wants to gang up on a lone guy when he hasn’t done anything against us, right?” He turned with a knowing sort of smile. “King?”

_But he did do something against us, Totsuka-san!_ Yata felt his frustration mounting. He didn’t want anything but permission to continue his own fight; the idea of his comrades mounting an attack on Saruhiko sat like cold dread in his stomach. But saying that Saruhiko hadn’t done anything wrong… that was… _He betrayed us!_

He had _left_ , burned the mark, thrown it in their faces…

“Yeah.” Mikoto looked up slowly, regarding Saruhiko with measuring eyes. It lasted for only a second or two, and then he was turning back, glancing at Kusanagi only long enough to add, “Let’s go.”

_Mikoto-san…?_

Kusanagi let out a small, amused-sounding huff. “Well, there you have it,” he announced loudly. “Back off, boys.” His gaze turned back to Saruhiko, slow and speculative. “Do me a favor, Fushimi,” he added, sounding deceptively mild. “Pass a message on to your Captain. Tell him it’s bad manners not to alert the clan whose territory he happens to be infringing on when he assigns his missions in the future.” That came with a sharp smile. “I’ll let this first offense pass with just that.”

Saruhiko let out a heavy sigh. When Yata looked at him, his eyes flickered from Kusanagi to Mikoto’s retreating back, and his shoulders were still tense. “Don’t act like I’m still one of your clansmen,” he muttered. “Carry your own messages next time.”

Kusanagi’s answering smile had a hint of amusement in it. “I’ll count on you just this once.”

“Nice to see you again, Fushimi-kun,” Totsuka interjected, offering a warm smile and a wave as he turned to follow his King. “Come on, everyone – King’s orders, remember? Out, out!”

“You too, Yata,” Kusanagi added with a hint of warning in his voice.

There was no arguing with that tone. “Got it.” Yata skated over obediently, pausing before the door to cast one more look at his former friend. Saruhiko’s face was shadowed, but even without seeing his eyes properly, Yata could tell his gaze was returned.

It sent a shiver down his spine that was hard to shake off. Some of his wounds were starting to sting, but he was barely aware of it, all of his attention focused on the biggest sore spot in his life. He made a sharp ‘ch’. “You’re lucky Mikoto-san was feeling generous today!”

Saruhiko let out a small huff of what sounded like sardonic laughter. “Lucky, huh?” Almost to himself, he murmured, “Is that what you think?”

Yata scowled back at him, clenched his fists briefly, and then forced himself to turn around, following after his clan and King without looking back. Despite his injuries, it felt like his heart had taken the most beating; it was aching like anything.

_We’re not soulmates,_ he reminded himself, trying to squash that feeling. _He’s a traitor!_

The words still felt hollow to the core.


	4. Chapter 4

One of the things Fushimi learned shortly after taking over the position of commander of the Special Operations Squad was that Scepter 4 had bi-annual conferences with the prime minister's office. It wasn't terribly surprising; despite the fact that the Gold King – and by extension Scepter 4 – maintained autonomy over the country's actual elected leader, the meetings helped to maintain the illusion of unity.

_As if the Captain won't just do whatever he pleases anyway..._

Well, it was no concern to him in the end, but as third in the line of direct command at Scepter 4, he was apparently expected to attend the conferences when not otherwise engaged, and he hadn't been able to come up with a good enough excuse to satisfy Munakata, so there he was.

_I swear that man is a sadist._ Fushimi clicked his tongue, moving at a slow pace around the large banquet hall. So far, the combination of the motion and keeping his focus on what work he could manage from his PDA seemed to give the others in the room the impression that he was busy with something important, because he hadn't been approached for any inane small talk since they'd dissolved the conference for this "social break". He hadn't bothered to even make a pass at the food trays that had been set out. There were servers making rounds with fancy-looking drinks, but he'd avoided them as well, wanting to keep the impression that he was engaged with business of some sort and not looking for idle conversation.

Idle was the right word for just about everything here, too. The room was not as opulent as most of Scepter 4's main headquarters, but the walls were lined with the moving wallpapers that were currently in style: in this case, garish red stars circling on sparkling gold background with thin white lines sliding down the frames behind them. The ceiling was vaulted, and the lights appeared to be imitation chandelier - tiny mountings lined with digital "crystals" to give them the appearance of grandeur.

That was Fushimi's impression of the prime minister's office in general: a fake fancy exterior to mask the lack of substance within. These so-called "conferences" really were just a waste of time.

On one side of the room, he could see Munakata talking with the prime minister and several attendants. On another, Awashima seemed to be giving instructions to Akiyama and Benzai, who had been the "escort" for this event – which in Fushimi's opinion was a waste of their time and talent.

As his eyes fell in that direction, he noticed the two of them glancing towards each other; Akiyama gave a small nod and Benzai's lip twitched, as if he wanted to smile but was still in control of his professional appearance.

Something anxious stirred in the pit of his stomach. _Don't be stupid._ Fushimi clicked his tongue and turned his gaze sharply back to his PDA, deliberately repressing any discomfort. He was still not used to the idea of a soulmate bonding that actually seemed to function, despite all of the hype suggesting that this was closer to the usual experience. But he'd spent enough time around those two to have his doubts squashed, at least as far as their match was concerned. Their partnership was efficient, they seemed to be on unreasonably good terms personally, and there was an air of contentment about them that was almost impossible to ignore. It was unnerving.

_Well, not everyone can be on that guy's level, can they?_ The image of black and white dice over a wicked smirk flickered at the back of his mind.

Whatever mood that hadn't been soured before definitely was now. Fushimi deepened his frown, glancing furtively around the room for anything that would allow for an acceptable exit plan. Despite the airy, temperature-controlled atmosphere, the place felt suddenly stifling and he needed a break of some sort.

There was a small balcony near the back of the room that overlooked the grounds; after a few second's thought, he made his way in that direction. _Technically, I won't be leaving the area, so it's not like anyone can complain._ It wouldn't be difficult to find him if he was needed for something, anyway.

It was actually warmer outside than it was inside, which was a bit jarring but not too uncomfortable. Summer was just starting to bleed into fall at that point, so there was a hint of crisp chill that lingered despite the warmth from the sun.

The seasonal crossover was always annoying. Fushimi clicked his tongue, moving away from the door and eyeing his surroundings without much real interest. The balcony was large and had an ornate gating around it – solid wood painted white and carved to look like marble. It matched the interior in that sense, though the color scheme was markedly different.

On the corners of the gate's ledge, someone had secured flower pots, and when he caught sight of _those_ , Fushimi momentarily paused, struck by a sudden and vivid memory.

_Tiny blue and white blossoms, each contained in a separate bundle._

_The sense of seasonal crossover in the air, warm and cool mingling uncomfortably._

_Misaki's eyes, bright and sparkling, above a vivid careless grin. "Thanks, Saruhiko!"_

_How useless._ Despite the thought, he moved towards one of the pots, reaching out to idly brush one of the tiny white blossoms with a finger. When mingled with the near purple of the blue flowers, somehow they seemed less of a pure shade than before – more of an off-white.

Then again, maybe it was his own blindness that had made them seem so pure before. Fushimi felt a sudden, irrational surge of something like bitterness and longing rise up within him. Trusting any kind of emotion hadn't ever led to anything worthwhile. Even now, he was still clinging to the memory of Misaki's impossibly wide smile and the way his eyes had shone... It was disgusting. He could summon a rage from Misaki easily. That alone could light a fire in his soul and give him all the gratification he needed.

But still, he felt dissatisfied, somehow – even hollow. If that made any sense.

"You're fond of flowers, Fushimi-kun?" Munakata's voice interjected itself into his silent musing.

Fushimi withdrew his finger immediately, turning to give his boss an irritated look. "I'm not really fond of having people sneak up on me," he responded, ignoring the question.

"My apologies. It was not my intent." Munakata smiled back, unperturbed. He stepped forward, gaze sliding from Fushimi to the flower pot. "This is an attractive combination. Forget-me-not and lily-of-the-valley, if I'm not mistaken."

_What does it matter?_ "I wouldn't know."

"Is that so?" He got another sidelong gaze. "Gardening can be an enriching area for study. You might consider it sometime if you ever feel the urge to expand your field of knowledge." Munakata's eyes returned to the arrangement, a thoughtful sort of look in them. "These two flowers are quite interesting if you consider the meaning behind them, for instance."

There was a pause, as if he were waiting for a response. Fushimi didn't bother to give him one, despite the faint edge of curiosity. Knowing the meaning of a flower was pretty much useless when you got down to it; if it wasn't explained, he didn't lose anything.

_Well, if I really wanted to know, I could look it up._

Munakata's smile widened just a tiny bit – Fushimi got the sense he'd just been seen through. After years at Scepter 4, he was starting to get used to the feeling, but it was still kind of irritating. "The forget-me-not is said to be associated with the concept of undying love. A connection that endures over time, and remembrance through parting." Once again, Munakata turned his gaze, this time inclining his head slightly as well. "Given that, I would say it's been aptly named – wouldn't you agree?"

Fushimi clicked his tongue, a little unnerved at the way that casual description seemed to strike home. He deliberately pushed the feeling down. "It would be stupid if they hadn't bothered to match them."

"Indeed." Munakata made a small, amused sound, turning back to the flowers once more. "Lily of the valley, on the other hand, takes its root in the meanings associated with all manner of lilies: purity, chastity, and humility, for instance. But there is one that I find rather intriguing." When he turned again, there was a knowing edge in his gaze. "'The return of happiness'."

That simple pronouncement had Fushimi's skin prickling beneath his work coat. He clicked his tongue again, turning from his boss's keen eyes. "That's pretty arbitrary."

"Perhaps. But then, it is not the flowers themselves that hold meaning." Munakata unexpectedly leaned in, bending forward as if to take in the scent from the bouquet. "It is the humans who encounter them that find and take meaning from such things."

_That doesn't make it less arbitrary._ Fushimi frowned, intending to say as much, and was brought up short when he turned his gaze back to his boss. With his body bent forward and his head tilted at that angle, it was possible to see the back of Munakata's neck, normally obscured by the high collar of his uniform. There was a bright, flawlessly crafted image imprinted in that stretch of skin: a sleek, burnished red sword. Not like the Sword of Damocles that appeared when he activated his sanctum, but a standard broadsword with an elaborate hilt that was encrusted with dark blue gems.

That kind of unnaturally precise image could only be a soulmate mark.

For a long moment, Fushimi was silent, pinpricks of shock spreading along his skin. _Seriously...?_

"Is something the matter, Fushimi-kun?" Munakata straightened, and the image of the sword was once again concealed. Their gazes locked, and there was a short beat before he smiled again, shutting his eyes. "Ah. You noticed that... irregularity, did you?"

Fushimi quickly recovered his equilibrium, clicking his tongue in response. "You didn't take a lot of pains to hide it just now."

"No. I did not." Munakata once again opened his eyes, calmly returning Fushimi’s stare. "Though, to be clear, it was not my intention that this should remain hidden, necessarily. More to the point, it is not of significant importance." He reached up to press his glasses higher on his nose, momentarily blocking his eyes from sight. "Merely a distraction."

_So you say._ It wasn’t difficult to put the pieces together from that much information – and the fact that there was no sign of a regular lover on the side. Not that Fushimi took particular pains to keep tabs on his boss, but Munakata could generally be found at headquarters during all hours of the day unless there was an emergency situation to be dealt with. If he _did_ have a lover, they would have to be incredibly patient – or one of his clansmen.

Somehow, that prospect seemed unlikely. Rather, based on the nature of the mark, Fushimi had a feeling…

He clicked his tongue, pushing that stray suspicion aside, and muttered, “Soulmates really are useless, aren’t they?”

It was meant to be an offhand observation, but Munakata seemed to take it as a conversational opening. “Oh?” His tone was one of keen interest, but surprisingly, the next words out of his mouth were, “As a matter of fact, I agree. However, I must confess to being curious.” His gaze was speculative when Fushimi bothered to meet it again. “What reason do you have for making such a contrary statement, Fushimi-kun?”

He could still see the black and white dice clearly in his head, a memory that had etched itself onto his brain for life, apparently. _How depressing._ Fushimi deliberately set that aside, crossing his arms and keeping his tone neutral despite the discomfort building in the pit of his stomach. “Nothing that special. There are too many flaws.” Once he’d started on the subject, it was easier to carry it forward, listing the things that came to mind immediately. “The matching system can’t be proved to be anything but completely arbitrary, it blatantly excludes anyone who can’t physically participate, and there’s no way to remove a mark if you find out later that your so-called partner isn’t who you thought they were when you made your hasty decision.” Another little shiver of unpleasant nostalgia wormed its way through his body at that; he deliberately ignored it. “You could end up wearing the brand of someone you loathe until the day one of you dies, all because you couldn’t resist the prospect of fifteen minutes swapping bodily fluids with them in a seedy motel room.”

He paused there just long enough to recover his breath and to confirm that Munakata was still patiently waiting for the rest of his response, and then continued. “Good luck finding someone else if you don’t want whoever you’re stuck with in that case. More than likely, people just stay in unpleasant situations out of fear of being alone.” He clicked his tongue. “It’s a system that might as well be designed for abuse. Those who want to take advantage will, and those who aren’t bright enough to see through it will become victims.”

“I see.” Munakata spoke again once he’d confirmed that Fushimi had finished. “So your objections lie with the way in which the system is utilized by those who are subject to it.” His gaze had a thoughtful edge to it. “Of course, there is no argument to make against the potential of such matches occurring. Indeed, there is evidence to show that your concerns are, in fact, founded in certain cases.” There was a brief pause, and then he smiled again. “However, my objections lie with the interpretation of the term ‘soulmate’.”

It was always difficult to know what to expect with him, but Fushimi still found the edge of confusion that came with those kinds of statements to be slightly disorienting. He frowned in response. “How do you mean?”

“In my observations, it appears that the common practice is to equate the term with ‘life partner’,” Munakata explained, turning to regard the flowers again with calm, thoughtful eyes. “I am not of the opinion that the two are related – at least, not under the terms that seem to result in the so-titled ‘soulmate’ matches.” He reached up again to push his glasses on his nose. “There seems to be a base level of compatibility required for a match to be formed, but no consideration made for the situation, feelings, or personal choice of the participants.” At that he shut his eyes, making a small, amused noise. “Rather a short-sighted system for lifetime partnerships, if one takes into account the varying complications resulting from human thought and emotion.”

Fushimi hadn’t considered that angle – not that he gave soulmates a lot of his time and energy these days other than where they related to his complicated relationship with Misaki. He narrowed his eyes. “You hate this ridiculous system as much as I do, then.”

“No.” Munakata turned again to regard him, with perfect calm. “By my estimation, the system itself is neutral. It is the interpretation of the terms that will lead one astray.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “Are you being cryptic for the sake of it?”

“My apologies. Allow me to explain in greater detail.” Munakata shut his eyes again. “Upon being presented with a soulmate match, one is being granted information. The choice of how best to apply the knowledge lies in the hands of the participants.” When he opened his eyes again, the depth of emotion in them was difficult to place. “Regardless of the social narrative, in many cases the wisest course of action may simply be to abandon the match.”

Somehow, the words resonated. Fushimi stared back, feeling like his soul shivered lightly within his body. He couldn’t seem to muster a proper response.

“However, such is not always the case.” The mood seemed to lift; Munakata smiled beatifically, tilting his chin and directing his gaze back to the glass doors leading inside.

When Fushimi followed the gaze, his eyes caught on Akiyama and Benzai engaged in a polite but clearly intent conversation inside the room. Neither was smiling openly, but there was a subtle lean in their posture, as if they were drawn in towards each other. It was simply and casually intimate, without breaking professional conduct in the slightest.

The shiver within him intensified.

“It is not a pair of soulmate marks which results in a functional match,” Munakata continued, a hint of gentle fondness in his tone. “Regardless of how any relationship is formed, it requires constant maintenance and open communication from the participants.” When Fushimi turned to face him again, he offered another cryptic smile. “The rewards, however, are many.”

Something small and restless stirred to life in his stomach, an edge of longing for _something_ that he couldn’t define. It was similar to the bitterness that clung to the back end of his encounters with Misaki – the dissatisfaction that lurked at the outskirts of his thoughts when they fell in that direction. Fushimi clicked his tongue, struggling against the ache in his chest.

He was fine without Misaki’s affection. It was a choice he still considered the best of his options, back then. But in his weaker moments, his thoughts were haunted by that warm smile and those fond, sparkling eyes. By the taste of Misaki’s cooking and the sound of his laughter.

The press of his lips, the warmth of his body, the tentative touch of his fingers on Fushimi’s skin…

_Don’t be stupid._ Forcibly pushing those thoughts back, Fushimi deepened his frown. “You know – ”

“Captain.” Awashima’s crisp, businesslike voice interrupted him. When he turned, she was standing at the door, her PDA held out in her hand. “I’ve received some intel regarding a Class 5 criminal strain engaged in a hostage situation at the outskirts of Shizume City. I’ll need your authorization before proceeding.”

“My, my.” Munakata turned to step towards her, his eyes going sharp with keen engagement as he did. “It appears that our visitation will have an abrupt end.” As she automatically shifted aside, he moved past her into the hall. “Please begin preparations as you see fit. I shall make our apologies to the prime minister.”

“Yes, sir.” She inclined her head with brusque respect, before looking up sternly. “You too, Fushimi.”

He clicked his tongue, without much feeling. “Got it.”

She tucked away her PDA while waiting for him to move through the doorway and then fell in step beside him. “I’ll need to inform Akiyama and Benzai as well – we’ll prepare the vehicle while waiting for the Captain.”

That was just logical – Fushimi responded with an automatic affirmative before giving her a sidelong glance. “Intel about a strain on the outskirts of Shizume, huh? Whose intel would that be?”

Her return gaze was cool and even, with only a raised eyebrow to mar it. “I won’t waste my breath answering questions you’ve already answered for yourself.” A short sigh came with that. “He and I agreed to trade information when it didn’t interfere with the interests of our clans. It’s been beneficial in a number of ways.”

_Beneficial, is it?_ Fushimi clicked his tongue again, not bothering to reply. Not for the first time, he wondered if she and Kusanagi might have a matching set of marks in some easily hidden place. And like every other time, he immediately dismissed that line of thinking. _Not like it matters to me._

It wasn’t like any of it mattered – not her, not Akiyama and Benzai, and not Munakata with his so-called “distraction”. He hadn’t joined Scepter 4 to make friends in the first place.

All the same, that sense of restless discontent continued to plague him.

 

* * *

 

 

The Homra bar was closed.

It was past two in the morning so that wasn’t unusual, but it _was_ unusual for the lights to still be on and for there to still be people sitting inside in perfect silence. A fresh haze of cigarette smoke hung over the room, contributed to by the two adults who had gone through who knew how many without even speaking once. The atmosphere was thick and heavy.

Yata wasn’t sure when the others had left. It was just the three of them now – Kusanagi behind the counter, Mikoto on the couch, and he with his elbows resting on the bar, staring at its surface as he tried to make some sense of the emotions that raged stormlike in his head.

_Totsuka-san…_ There was an ache in his chest. In his throat. All through his body. He trembled with it.

After the funeral, his grief had been nearly overpowered by fury, and it had been easy to retain his energy. He was going to find the bastard that had killed Totsuka and beat him to death with his own hands if he could. That rock-solid certainty had kept him going, his mind burning with thoughts of vengeance all through the trek back to Homra from Totsuka’s final resting place.

Now, with no viable actions to take and only the shared grief to keep him company, he couldn’t seem to muster it. Totsuka was gone, and Bar Homra felt unbearably cold, despite the stuffy atmosphere.

Yata swallowed hard. There was weakness settling in his body and soul, his helplessness from the previous night still lingering. For the first time in years, he had felt powerless – unable to save a precious friend even as he held that friend in his own arms. Unable to do anything as Totsuka’s breath left him, his body growing heavy and his eyes dark and sightless. The scent of blood was still sharp and overpowering in his memory, almost choking him even now.

_I should’ve gone with him. I could’ve done something._ Those thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone – the what-ifs that he couldn’t silence. In front of him, his hands clenched into fists, so tightly that his knuckled ached.

At least it dulled the pain inside of him just a little.

A heavy sigh from the couch cut into his thoughts; Yata lifted his head as Mikoto rose to his feet, putting out his cigarette on the ashtray sitting on the low table in front of him as he did. “I’m going up,” he said slowly.

Kusanagi nodded. “Check on Anna, will you?” he asked, voice subdued.

“Yeah.” As Mikoto turned, his gaze met Yata’s. He didn’t immediately say anything and it didn’t seem like his expression changed. His steps were heavy and measured as he detoured slightly by the bar. As he was about to pass, he reached out with one large hand and set it on Yata’s head over the beanie. Holding it there for a single, almost comforting beat, he said in an even lower tone, “Get some rest.”

It wasn’t often that Mikoto made gestures like that. Yata turned on his seat to stare after him, reaching up with one hand to tentatively touch the same place that his King just had. Mikoto’s retreating back was wide, his fur-collared jacket giving him a wild edge. He was still every inch the titan that Yata had placed all of his hopes and dreams on when he’d joined Homra.

Still, when their eyes had met just then, there had been something impossibly tired in his hero’s gaze.

In the midst of his grief, he couldn’t help but wonder… If Mikoto really did have a soulmate, where were they? Wouldn’t they rush to his side at a time like this? He’d never seen any trace of this person and their absence was a huge jarring disconnect, especially right then. He still wasn’t sure if they were really there or if it had just been teasing on Totsuka’s –

Ah.

Even just thinking about him in passing had Yata’s eyes stinging, the ache in his body throbbing in response. He swallowed again, lowering his hand and struggling to recover his equilibrium. _Totsuka-san…_

“We’ll get that bastard for sure, Mikoto-san!” he managed to choke out, drawing up a fervent determination from the very base of his soul. “I won’t stop until I find him, I swear it!”

Mikoto didn’t turn, but he did pause on the stairs – just long enough to rumble back, “Yeah,” before continuing on.

Yata clenched his hands into fists again in his lap. His eyes were burning now, unshed tears gathering around the edges of them and causing his vision to wobble. The anger churning in his belly was like the tiny flame of a match next to the raging inferno of his grief, but it helped to keep him grounded.

“You should do as he says,” Kusanagi told him. He sounded weary as well, but it didn’t seem as if he was planning to head out any time soon. When Yata turned back to face him, he was lighting another cigarette. After he’d finished, he added, “There won’t be much time for breaks from now on. Rest up while you can.” Their eyes met, and a hint of knowing sympathy crossed his features. “You can take the couch downstairs if you’d rather not leave, Yata-chan.”

For a moment, Yata blinked at him, not quite catching up, and then he managed a small nod, hands slackening again as the offer processed. “Ah… thanks.”

Honestly, he hadn’t been home – or slept – since… then. After they’d brought Totsuka’s body to the bar, Kusanagi had told him to wash up and go home, and he’d gone along with it but he hadn’t returned to his apartment at all. He didn’t remember much of the night, only that he’d skated for hours by himself, grief and fury and pain clouding his thoughts as he pushed his body to the limit. He could only recall the sting of the wind on his face, the tears that wouldn’t stop blurring his vision, and the comforting feel of the wheels beneath his feet grinding against the pavement.

The sun had come up and he’d been back at the bar within the hour, finding the doors open and Kusanagi at the counter already. Neither of them had bothered to ask if the other had slept.

“Don’t worry about it.” Kusanagi lifted the cigarette from his lips, one corner of his mouth tilting upward without much feeling. “Just go try and sleep, if you can. I’ll wake you when it’s time, all right?”

There wasn’t much point in asking ‘time for what?’ Yata nodded again, turning on his stool to hop to his feet. He wasn’t the only one focused on revenge right now. When he looked back again, Kusanagi had replaced his cigarette. There were shadows on his face, both ominous and weary all at once.

“Kusanagi-san…” His voice was foggy and hoarse. Yata cleared his throat and tried again. “Aren’t you gonna sleep?”

He got another small smile for that, this time with a hint of fond tolerance. “Don’t worry about me, Yata-chan – I’ve been around long enough to know my limits.” His eyes turned serious. “You should go lie down, at least.”

A million possible responses were fighting for the chance to jump up the back of Yata’s throat. ‘What if I can’t stop picturing it?’ ‘Maybe we could stay up together.’ ‘Are you thinking about what it was like as much as I am?’ ‘Can’t we just talk for a while?’

The one that nearly made it was, ‘I dunno if I wanna be alone.’

It would’ve been lame of him to say it. More than lame – he’d be a burden on Kusanagi. Yata clenched his hands into fists again, swallowing back all of that weakness. He was Yatagarasu, Homra’s vanguard, not some scared little kid. “Yeah, I got it.”

Tomorrow, they’d be turning Shizume City upside down and shaking it to flush out Totsuka’s killer. Homra was out for blood, and he wanted as much of a piece of that as he could get. Yata drew up his fury and determination with all of his remaining energy, letting them fill him and tempering his resolve. “I’ll find that guy, Kusanagi-san,” he declared fiercely. “I won’t let him get away with this!”

Kusanagi nodded in acknowledgement. “I’ll be counting on you.” He blew out a puff of smoke, face still shadowed. “Go sleep while you can.”

That was a clear enough dismissal. Yata trudged out of the room, leaving his skateboard at the bar and heading down the stairs leading into the basement.

This was where they’d set up the projector to play back Totsuka’s videos. The lights were off, but with moonlight filtering in through the window in that small brick room, he couldn’t help but see it as he turned at the bottom of the stairs to face the couch. The pale bluish-white light glinted off of the metal parts, causing it to stand out: a shadowed specter in the dark.

It felt as though his chest squeezed inward at the sight. Momentarily struggling for breath, Yata stepped forward, turning automatically when he reached the couch to face the wall where the videos would have been projected.

There weren’t going to be any new ones now. Not videos, or songs, or strange new recipes. No gently teasing smiles. No warm enthusiasm. No more joking around about silly things or talking cheerfully while they cooked together.

“Totsuka-san,” he mumbled under his breath, feeling his eyes sting again. His head was starting to throb now too, as if in counterpart with the ache in his body. Breathing hadn’t become any easier. “Sorry.”

As if that single word unlatched a floodgate within him, there were tears obscuring his vision yet again, fast overflowing and running down his face. Yata allowed his legs to give out, sitting heavily on the firm surface of the couch and letting his head drop, elbows braced on his knees and forehead on his clasped hands. He shut his eyes, tears squeezing out from behind the lids and sliding down his nose.

There was no shutting out the reality. Totsuka was gone.

In that empty, dark room with no one to either burden or confide in, Yata let himself cry openly.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t the first time that Fushimi had worked alone after hours, but the melancholy atmosphere in that dark room was new.

Part of that may have been because he hadn’t bothered to turn the light on after returning to headquarters and setting to work. There was something ridiculously melodramatic about sitting alone in the dark with moonlight seeping in through the open window and the glow and hum of his laptop illuminating his immediate surroundings even further. But he could’ve turned the light on – could’ve got up from his seat and done it right then – and he hadn’t. Somehow, being alone in the dark stilled that restless uncertainty within him. The air felt stale, and the lack of presence in the room was calming.

It was ridiculous that he even needed to be calmed – that there were even feelings he needed to quiet in this way – but there was no denying it.

Right at that moment, it helped to focus on practical matters. There was a pile of paperwork that had been steadily growing as Scepter 4 focused on the hunt for Totsuka’s killer, and with the death of the Red King, those conditions were unlikely to improve any time soon.

_The death of the Red King._ Fushimi’s fingers stilled on the keys. He couldn’t seem to keep the weight of that reality from his thoughts for long.

It shouldn’t have affected him, one way or another. He had always been scared of Suoh Mikoto – even now, that feeling of being suffocated hadn’t vanished when they were near each other. He’d barely been able to look the man in the eye without flinching. And Totsuka Tatara had been a thorn in his side in many ways – always poking in with that unflinching curiosity and his uncanny habit of ferreting out the secrets Fushimi kept locked away from even himself. There was no reason to feel much for the passing of either one.

And yet, he couldn’t forget…

The deep, measured voice: _What do you_ want _to do?_

The deceptively light tone: _Why did you choose this path?_

A surge of feelings that were either unfamiliar or simply too troublesome to classify rose up, and Fushimi shut his eyes to block it back. That was a mistake as well – behind his eyelids, he could see the memory of Misaki’s diminutive frame amongst his fellow clansmen, tears streaming openly down his face as he stomped his foot and shook his fist and chanted with all his might.

_“Stupid Saru!”_

He hadn’t been aware that Misaki had known he was watching until he’d shouted that out.

It was possible he’d just guessed. One of those rare moments of perception that Fushimi had classified with a points system – _100 points_ – years ago. All the same, his skin had prickled and his stomach had twisted uncomfortably. But he hadn’t looked away, even when Misaki turned and met his gaze with a furious, grief-stricken expression. That look had given him chills, and even if he had the kind of memory that let him forget things, he didn’t think he’d have ever forgotten _that_.

The restlessness within his body seemed to churn to the surface, but he still had no idea where to direct it. Restless and aimless – those were the words he could use to classify his feelings right then.

There was a gentle step behind him. “Working late, are you, Fushimi-kun?”

Fushimi opened his eyes, not bothering to turn as he made a small sound of acknowledgement. “I could ask you the same.”

“I suppose you could.” Munakata came to a stop next to his chair, falling silent at the same moment. The air was thick between them during that small break, as if all the words they wouldn’t or couldn’t speak were crammed into the empty space. Then he spoke again. “It would be remiss of me if I failed to remind you that there is no obligation to remain, regardless of the work load. Such things can wait, after all.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue half-heartedly, still without looking up from his screen. “It’s less of a pain if I do it now.”

“I see.” The pitch of Munakata’s voice had softened slightly. “Do as you see fit.”

Nothing in the silence that spread between them had cleared; it still stretched out heavily, as if carrying the burden of the things weighing on Fushimi’s mind that he didn’t particularly want to acknowledge. He stared resolutely forward for a moment, unable to properly focus on the words displayed on his screen.

_Homra is really over now._ He’d felt it coming with Totsuka’s murder – there was no way Mikoto would be able to continue as King without the tapering his presence provided. But this was the first time he’d thought it so clearly, and with such finality.

The Red King was dead, and the Red Clan would dissipate. It was inevitable.

For all that he’d let his resentment brew during his time in Homra, Fushimi didn’t find himself taking any particular pleasure in that notion. Rather, it seemed as though a cold lump had settled in his stomach.

_What will you do now, Misaki?_

Even just that bit of speculation brought the restlessness back, full force. He could barely breathe around the sudden longing that overtook his brain – a longing whose aim he still couldn’t seem to place.

More out of an attempt to distract himself from those burdensome thoughts than anything, he glanced at Munakata for the first time. His boss stood solemnly at his side, hands clasped behind his back and posture unbent. He was bathed in moonlight, face angled towards the window, and the light reflected from his glasses, making his expression difficult to place. There was no smile on his face.

His sword was notably absent from his belt.

In that moment, Fushimi found his own words from months before returning to him: _“You could end up wearing the brand of someone you loathe until the day one of you dies”_. Without thinking, he glanced up at the collar of Munakata’s uniform.

From that angle, of course, he couldn’t see whether or not the mark had vanished.

Lowering his gaze again, Fushimi let out a long breath, clicked his tongue, and tried to turn his attention back to the work in front of him.


	5. Chapter 5

When Yata opened his eyes, there was a sluggish feel to it, as if he were doing it underwater. His vision was blurry at first, but he had the impression of laughter and warmth.

_Ah… I’m at Homra._

“Back with us, Yata-chan?” Kusanagi’s voice had a note of fond amusement in it; when his vision cleared, he found his older friend smiling at him from behind the bar.

“Kusanagi-san…?” He blinked, and then looked around. Everyone was there, grinning and joking around, not really paying much attention to where he’d slumped over one of the tables. The air in the room was comfortably warm, a familiar sense of welcome present in the sight of his friends’ grins and the sound of their laughter and casual banter. The atmosphere was relaxed.

Despite all of that, there was a feeling of unease building within him. Yata swallowed, trying to remember why. “Did I fall asleep?”

“That’s right!” A familiar light-toned voice announced cheerfully behind him, and for whatever reason, Yata felt something clench painfully in his chest as Totsuka ducked forward to smile brightly at him. “Out like a light! Must’ve been tired, huh, Yata?”

“Eh?” The unease was gradually progressing to dread; puzzled by the feeling, Yata furrowed his brow and tried to pick up the conversational thread. “Well…”

Totsuka chucked, his gaze sliding past Yata. “Have you been working him too hard, King?”

At that, his heart gave a sharp and painful tug; Yata looked up quickly, catching the slow motion of Mikoto’s head as he looked up from his usual seat on the couch. There was sunlight beaming in through the window behind him, creating shadows across his face and making it difficult to see his expression. “No more than usual,” that deep, measured voice responded.

_Mikoto-san…_ Once again, something within him throbbed; he had to swallow hard, unable to speak, and felt tears rising to his eyes inexplicably. Feeling dazed and more than a little overwhelmed, he reached up to touch them, not quite registering the damp on his fingertips. His vision wavered and blurred out.

“Eh? What’s wrong, Yata?” Totsuka suddenly sounded alarmed. “Did you have a bad dream?”

_I don’t know… I don’t…_

There was a familiar, irritable tongue click from the direction of the bar, and Yata’s breath caught painfully in his throat. “If you didn’t stay up playing video games all the time, maybe you wouldn’t be so tired,” Saruhiko mumbled.

_Saruhiko…_

The sense of something being terribly wrong was screaming at him now, but he couldn’t seem to pinpoint what the problem was. Yata reached up to brush at the stream of tears, trying to smile around the ache in his chest and throat as he turned to face his oldest friend. “Oi… you don’t have to say that – ”

“Don’t I?” When he turned, the room seemed to shift and fade out, the sounds of laughter and boisterous voices dropping off as he faced Saruhiko, who stood alone in a void of darkness. Despite the lack of light there was a glare on his glasses, hiding his eyes, and his lips were already spreading into a smirk as he lowered his head. He was dressed in blue, his hair styled messily; as he raised his gaze and the shadows dropped off, there was something manic in his eyes. One of his hands burst into flame as Yata watched, frozen. “Or maybe I haven’t said enough… right, Misaki?” he breathed out in a gleefully mocking tone, reaching up with his free hand to tug the collar of his white work shirt down to reveal the mangled wreck of his Homra mark.

Sick horror and alarm grasped him; Yata knocked his chair over in his haste to rise, reaching forward without thinking “Don’t – !”

There was no chance to finish; the flame around Saruhiko’s hand burst into an inferno, consuming him entirely and reducing him to ashes in seconds. The echo of his breathless laughter hung behind in the aftermath, the ghostly sound of it seeming to rise up with his remains as they were blown off into nothing by a breeze that Yata didn’t feel.

_Sa-Saruhiko…_ A tremble started in Yata’s limbs; his knees nearly gave out with the shock.

“Don’t worry…” The words from behind him were hauntingly familiar, the tone struggling to produce comfort despite its owner’s lack of strength. Yata spun around and found himself faced with Totsuka’s hunched figure, head bowed forward so that only the weak attempt at a smile was visible. His chest was marred by a bloody hole; a trail of red formed at the corner of his mouth. “Everything will be all right,” he murmured, his voice a shadow of its formerly cheerful self.

“Totsuka-san!” Again, Yata jumped forward, reaching forward with all his might.

“Sorry…” As if the motion had been the tipping point, Totsuka’s body slipped away from Yata’s desperately grasping fingers, falling sharply backwards. As he hit the point where the ground should’ve been, he abruptly shattered, the pieces scattering to oblivion.

At that, Yata’s legs did fail him; he fell to his knees with an impact that didn’t even seem to hurt, shock and horror rushing through his body in waves.

_Totsuka-san…_

“Yata.” The slow tone of his King had him snapping his head up without thinking, glancing around wildly. Mikoto wasn’t anywhere in sight; around him, there was nothing but darkness. But still, that deep voice continued. “That’s enough.”

“Mikoto-san?” There was no trace of movement or even a sense of presence in the void around him. Yata felt panic rising, and his body trembled even more violently as he searched frantically. “Where are you?”

“That’s enough,” the familiar voice rumbled back at him. It sounded fainter now, as if its owner were retreating. “That’s enough, Yata…”

“Wait – Mikoto-san!” Yata hastily attempted to stumble to his feet and follow blindly – and found that his legs seemed to have been weighed down, sinking slowly into the floor as if it were quicksand. He struggled violently against it and felt his body sink further, arms scrambling for purchase against what suddenly felt like a melting surface. “O-oi…” As his face neared the ground, the scent of blood mingled with burning flesh was suddenly so strong in his nose that he gagged, unable to speak further, and started to cough violently.

_Can’t breathe…_

Everything went still.

 

* * *

 

 

Even as his eyes shot open, Yata felt his stomach heave, bile rising fast at the back of his throat from the lingering memory of that horrible smell. He fumbled his way up from the couch in Homra’s basement, limbs still heavy with sleep and starting to stiffen with shock from the rude awakening. Clamping a hand tightly over his mouth, he caught a handful of spit-up with his fingers before he could stumble across to the toilet and all but collapse forward against the seat, emptying what little was in his stomach into the bowl.

The angry smack of his knees hitting the tiled floor actually registered as pain this time, connecting him solidly with reality as he heaved violently.

It was mostly just bitter, burning fluid that came out, but even after that was done, his midsection spasmed a few more times in furious protest of… whatever that was… before he fell still, panting as he braced himself awkwardly against the cool porcelain.

After that, it was several more long seconds before he gathered himself enough to take stock of his situation. He was still in his clothing from the day before, caked in sweat from the muggy mid-August temperature, and now with his knees smarting and a vile taste in his mouth. Yata shut his eyes, pushing himself away from the toilet harshly. “Fuck,” he muttered.

He’d fallen asleep at Homra… again. Most nights he made an effort to go back to his own apartment, if only because hanging around the bar when it was empty sometimes had the effect of making him feel empty too. The sense of loss could – and did – strike at any time. He’d get mad – or frustrated, or just irritable, or sad – but it would always end with emptiness.

He didn’t really know what to do with himself now that Homra didn’t fill up his time. The silence and the blandness of his life were stifling. Sometimes it helped to be at the bar, and other times it made things worse. It was hard to predict.

_Whatever._ Letting out a frustrated breath, Yata opened his eyes, reached up to flush the revolting contents of the toilet and then braced a hand on the bowl for leverage as he rose to his feet. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand, pausing to try and get hold of himself now that he’d been rudely jerked out of a sound sleep.

There wasn’t much else he could do but move forward, however pointless it seemed now.

His hand was shaking when he pulled it back, body still reacting to the impression of the dream that was still stark and clear in his mind. Looking at it from a distance, it probably shouldn’t have felt as real as it did, but actually experiencing it… watching those things…

Feeling totally helpless…

“Shut up,” he muttered out loud, lips twisting down into a scowl as he deliberately turned to the basin to rinse off his hands. The cool water felt like a shock on his warm skin, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He focused on leaning forward, cupping his palm to catch a pool of it and bending so he could pour it into his mouth, swishing and spitting to clean out the gross aftertaste.

Would’ve been nice if he could do the same for his brain.

Yata straightened at that thought, briefly shutting his eyes and letting out a shaky, frustrated breath. Homra had been a place he could usually count on for a nightmare-free sleep, but not only had that failed him tonight, this one had been way more vivid than the rest. He’d had his senses tricked before – things like sticky blood against his skin or the weight of Totsuka’s body in his arms as it went slack – but that had been… Hell. It still felt like traces of that sickening-sweet smell lingered around his nose, and his stomach rolled threateningly in response. Way more intense than usual.

First time he’d woke up and _puked_ , anyway.

It occurred to him that this shit was probably getting worse rather than better, but he couldn’t summon up much more than a dull irritation at the thought. Yata turned off the water and shook out his hands reflexively before curling his still-trembling fingers into loose fists, shoulders slumping naturally as he stepped out of the washroom.

The basement was warm, almost unpleasantly so with the thin layer of moisture clinging to his skin and clothing from the nightmare. It was dark too, still well before dawn, but the room was illuminated by the light coming from the active projector. The tape had finished on a frozen image of Kamamoto with one large arm clamped in a friendly manner around Bandou’s shoulders and his free hand curled into a fist that was pressed against Yata’s. All three of them were grinning widely, caught in a moment of careless happiness.

Yata felt his eyes sting, a lump rising at the back of his throat as he took in the captured memory. If he’d known those moments had an expiry date, he probably would’ve treasured them more.

_Not that anyone else did…_

The bitterness in that thought was an old friend by now. Yata made a soft ‘ch’, turning from the projected image to remove the tape and turn off the projector, with the half-formed notion of either camping out on the couch for the rest of the night or heading back to his apartment.

The whir of the active machine cut out with an abruptness that was somehow jarring, the room falling into silence and the light and color seeming to leech from his surroundings all at once. There was moonlight seeping in through the windows, but it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, it felt like he was standing in the middle of a room full of shadows – sad, ghostlike echoes of a place that had been warm and comfortable once.

The sting returned full-force, eyes and nose both this time, and tears blurred his vision. Yata didn’t bother to reach up and swipe at them this time, passively letting the moment of formless grief overtake him. In his mind, he could see the images from his dream – that carefree happiness and contentment in the peaceful scene vanishing as important people left him, one by one.

_Totsuka-san… Mikoto-san…_ _Kusanagi-san… everyone…_

Saruhiko.

Not a single important person could be bothered to stick around. Yata felt the edge of bitterness and helpless frustration creep in around the grief, his fingers clenching again into fists at his sides. _What was Homra to them, anyway?_ The red clan was his pride, the thing that he had built his entire self around, and they could all leave it behind them like it was nothing at all.

Even if he tried to tell himself in his heart that he was still Homra’s Yatagarasu, it felt hollow now. Nothing but lip service with no substance to it.

But if he wasn’t Yatagarasu, then who was he?

There was an answer to that question lurking in the darkest part of him – that small, self-conscious corner that he’d closed off years ago. It hadn’t surfaced since he’d met Saruhiko and gained a certainty in his soul – an unshakeable feeling that he was Saruhiko’s soulmate and destined for great things by extension.

_Nobody special._

With even the earlier grief and indignation running their course, the familiar emptiness was starting to wedge its way back into his thoughts. Yata let out a rough sigh and clicked his tongue again, shutting his drying eyes for a brief second of resignation. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep now anyway, so there was no point in trying.

Swiping a careless hand to clear away the lingering dampness on his face, he reached out to turn the projector back on.

 

* * *

 

 

His stomach was still a little queasy even hours later, so Yata didn’t bother stopping to grab breakfast after locking up the bar and heading out. Hell, it wasn’t like he ate all that regularly these days. Most of the time he wasn’t really hungry, and that combined with being dirt fucking poor made it easier to just skip meals.

There wasn’t much to do that day, either. Yata let his skateboard drop, stepping onto it and kicking off aimlessly. He didn’t work, and had no plans.

What the hell would he even plan? He had no goddamn friends around.

Still, he didn’t feel like going back to his apartment. Didn’t feel like going back into the bar either. Didn’t feel like watching more tapes, didn’t feel like playing video games, didn’t feel like going to the game center or watching TV or… anything.

_Who cares, anyway?_ It didn’t matter what he did.

Because he didn’t have a destination or a goal, he ended up just skating randomly. The dull sense of loss kinda faded into the background with the familiar comfort of motion and speed. He could control this – navigating the sidewalks of Shizume City, weaving around the increasing foot traffic with comfortable ease, casually kicking his board off the ground and flipping here and there just for the sake of switching it up. With the pavement reduced to his playing field and a breeze whipped up against his skin, he felt a sense of normalcy in a world that had lost most of its meaning.

It didn’t give him that sense of freedom and power it had before, but he’d take what he could get at this point.

The previous night started to take its toll sooner than he expected. Yata hadn’t done more than doze off a couple of times while going through more of Totsuka’s tapes and it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d had a rough night recently, so it shouldn’t have surprised him, but the sudden drop in his stamina was jarring just the same. His movements started to get sluggish after the sun passed the midway mark in the sky, legs feeling unsteady as he pushed off and tried to balance. It felt like there was a weight growing in his chest. The mixture of an empty stomach – when was the last time he’d had a proper meal, anyway? – and a lack of uninterrupted sleep were making themselves known throughout his body.

_Guess I’ll go home._ It was early, but he’d probably sleep now. Yata veered off his course, slowly doing the mental calibration as he took in his surroundings to get a sense of where he was. If he was lucky, he’d pass out on his futon and sleep without dreaming until early morning. He had a shift in the afternoon the next day, so he could eat or something first. Maybe try for a real meal instead of just snacks.

It would give him something to do, at least.

With the haze of weariness and hunger draped over him, Yata's observational and reaction skills were heavily hampered. That was how he ended up skating blindly across a street before the light had changed, and caught the screeching of tires barely an instant before blunt force struck him from the side.

It was a strong hit – the car must've been speeding – but there was enough red aura remaining in him that his body didn't take the damage an ordinary person's would've. Still, being unprepared, he went flying off his skateboard, hit the ground hard, and rolled a few times before coming to a heavy stop, face down. Dazed, he didn't get up immediately.

There was the sound of a car door opening. "Shit! Kid, are you all right?" A frantic-sounding man's voice rang out.

_Hell._ Yata was more annoyed than anything – the various bruises and abrasions were nothing more than a nuisance. He pushed himself to a sitting position with some effort, feeling vaguely nauseated and a little dizzy now in addition to everything else. "Yeah."

He heard the relieved exhale as footsteps came towards him. "What the hell were you thinking, skating out in the middle of – ?"

"I'll be taking charge of this from here," a familiar bored drawl cut in. Yata felt like all the veins in his body turned to ice at once. When he looked up, it was in time to see Saruhiko pick up his skateboard from the street and straighten, fixing the man with a sharp look from between the car and Yata. "You can go."

_What the hell is he doing here?_ Somehow, Yata couldn't manage to do more than stare dumbly.

"Am I under arrest?" The man sounded uncertain. Saruhiko's uniform seemed to have convinced him that this was someone with authority, even if he didn't know what kind.

"No. You're not the one who thinks he's above traffic laws." Saruhiko shot Yata a look that was a mix of scathing and resigned. "Get up, Misaki. You're sitting in the middle of a busy street."

That tone was enough to raise his hackles, irritation and frustration rising through the fog settled around his head. "You fucking..." Yata struggled to his feet as Saruhiko turned on his heel and walked sharply toward the curb. He had to press a hand over his side, which throbbed warningly as he stumbled forward. "Oi! Saruhiko! What the hell are you doing?"

There was a brief but potent pause. Behind them, the car door closed; the car itself sped off.

Saruhiko had halted on the sidewalk with his back to Yata and the skateboard still in his hand. After the pause he let it drop, the clatter of it hitting the ground nearly overpowering his words when he finally spoke. "Removing a traffic obstruction. Be more careful next time, idiot." There was another, much shorter moment of silence and then he added, "It's not like you have a full red aura, after all."

"You..." Yata's free hand clenched into a fist. There were dark spots swimming in his vision, and he couldn't seem to summon the full force of his anger. He glared helplessly at the back of Saruhiko's head. "Bastard..."

As he stepped forward and bent to retrieve his skateboard, his stomach gave a sharp lurch and his head spun alarmingly. "Don't you even...?" He tried to straighten, and nearly puked as his side throbbed again, causing his vision to split. His words seemed to stick to each other when he spoke again, slurring on his tongue. "Don't you even fucking ca... re...?"

"Misaki?" The undertone of tense alarm in Saruhiko's voice was the last thing he heard before he pitched forward, the world rapidly giving way to darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

When he came to, it was to the familiar twilight glow spilling through the windows of Bar Homra just above the couch where he was lying flat. Yata blinked, having trouble opening his eyes wider than a fraction as he struggled with dizzying disorientation.

_I was going home... right?_

"You're finally awake?" The sound of boot heels clicking on the floor accompanied that bored-sounding question.

Yata didn't have to open his eyes to identify the other person in the room - he could've recognized that voice no matter what shape he was in – but he did anyway, struggling to sit up as he eyed the still-not-quite-focused image of Saruhiko standing next to him. The blue jacket was absent, leaving him in only his white work shirt and vest.

"What're you doing here?" Yata muttered, wariness tinged with faint hostility stirring in his belly.

Saruhiko, in the bar again… How many times had he wished for it over the past couple of years? The irony of it finally happening now, in a situation like _this_ , made him feel like crying again.

_Why? Why couldn’t you have come back before this? Why now?_

Saruhiko clicked his tongue. "We're all under instruction from above to keep an eye on former red clansmen," he responded, sounding irritated. "I would've heard about it from the lieutenant later if I'd left you on the street. And now there's a chance you have a concussion too, so it's not like I can just leave you here, either." He held out his hand; as the world shifted into focus in front of Yata's tired eyes, the glass he was holding did as well. "Here. Take it."

He was too groggy and exhausted to argue. Yata pulled his knees up, turning to sit properly as he took the glass. "What is it?"

"Water. What were you expecting?"

"Dunno. Poison?" Yata managed a small, humorless chuckle at that, taking a half-hearted sip. The water was cool, cutting into the warm fog that had settled over his head sharply. He was starting to feel almost normal as he drank again, letting it course through him and clear up his mind a bit.

Saruhiko sighed. "Don't tempt me." His voice was dry. "Do you have any idea how much work is piling up while I'm stuck babysitting you here?"

Somehow, both the attitude and the tone were having a calming effect. Yata almost found himself smiling, a little wave of nostalgia rushing over him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to talk normally with Saruhiko. It was weird. And, well... maybe he was hated now, but this behavior was so familiar. It was almost like...

_Yeah, don't go there._ A small twinge from an old hurt that had never managed to heal struck him with that thought. He couldn't get used to it; after all, Saruhiko was just gonna leave again. Like he always did.

Like everyone else had already done.

The lack of a response seemed to unsettle his conversation partner. Saruhiko clicked his tongue again, a hint of wariness in his gaze when Yata looked up to meet it. "Hurry up and drink," he mumbled. "The sooner you're back to normal, the sooner I can get back to work."

Yeah, there it was. Yata felt the tiny thread of hope he hadn't quite managed to tug loose go up in flames at that. The empty feeling was back, spreading out from the center of his body as he turned his eyes to scowl down at the glass in his hand. "I’m fucking fine."

Another impatient sigh. "You were hit by a car, in case you've forgotten." There was some rustling, and Yata felt the displacement of the cushion next to him as Saruhiko sat down. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Even if you didn't hit your head, you weren't always the best at remembering things, were you, Misaki?"

Somewhat surprised, Yata shot him a sideways glare. "Don't call me that!" It felt like a mockery now when Saruhiko used that name. The moment of carefree happiness when they'd agreed to call each other by their given names was still clear in his mind – he wasn't _that_ bad at remembering things – and the ache in his soul got worse now when he was drawn back into it. "Didn't you just say you're busy? Fuck off and leave me alone already."

Saruhiko returned his gaze with even dispassion, arms crossed and a frown on his lips. “As soon as I’m satisfied you’re not going to pass out and die on this couch, I will.” He cocked his head condescendingly. “Obviously you can’t be trusted to assess your own condition, so I’ll rely on my judgement. Nothing new there.”

Normally, something like that would’ve pissed him off. Yata felt the seed of bitter frustration sprouting up within him and scowled in return, but he couldn’t manage to summon up a proper anger. It was just echoes of previous emotions now, skirting around the edges of that dull blankness at the core. “You really piss me off, you know that?” he muttered in response, lifting the glass again so he had something to focus on other than the painfully familiar face and expression. “Fuck your judgement, anyway.”

Even now, being this close to Saruhiko sent shivers along his skin. He didn’t know where to start with the complicated mix of feelings he harbored, but the physical reactions were impossible to mistake. He remembered exactly what those thin lips felt like against his, and the thought of it sparked a familiar warmth in his lower belly.

It was an attraction he’d never been able to kill, even after all this time. Even after everything that had happened.

Saruhiko clicked his tongue again, mumbling under his breath, “Eloquent as ever. You haven’t changed.”

“Hah! Like you can talk about _change_!” Yata plunked the empty glass down onto the coffee table, ignoring the wobble as it recovered from the swift force with which it had been placed and turning to glare again. “You’re _always_ like this, doing whatever the hell you feel like! You piss me off so much!” With the flow of bitter words started, he couldn’t stop the rest of it from surging onward. “Are you fucking happy? Everyone else left, just like you! I’m here all by myself like an idiot! Is that why you’re hanging around? To gloat? You hate me, right?” A bitterly amused snort escaped him at that, and he felt his lips curl derisively as he watched that impassive face for some reaction. “You gotta be happy now that I’m this pathetic, huh?”

Something seemed to shift in Saruhiko’s expression. It was a small thing – Yata couldn’t even place what it was, only that he noticed it immediately and his breath instinctively slowed as he did. “No.”

The unexpected sharpness of that response was like a blow; Yata stared back dumbly, taken completely off-guard. “Huh?”

Saruhiko tipped his head forward, arms uncurling slowly, and it was only in that moment that Yata realized how he’d leaned in during his own impassioned speech.

Their faces were… close…

“I’m not,” Saruhiko mumbled, halfway closing his eyes but not able to disguise how his pupils had widened as he returned Yata’s gaze steadily, “happy.”

The shudder that ran through Yata’s body at that was almost uncomfortably warm. He swallowed, more than a little confused, unable to find the thread of the conversation again in his scrambled brain. This close, he could see the individual lines of Saruhiko’s lashes behind his glasses. “O-oh.”

Those eyes never failed to devastate him. A tight coil was forming already in his lower body, the ache of longing rising up fast and nearly choking him with its force. The sharp but pleasant sensations of his skin tingling and his chest throbbing from within were already clouding his thoughts, overpowering practicality with an intoxicating _want_.

He’d missed Saruhiko. And he never knew what to do with those feelings that he couldn’t seem to get rid of. They sat cold and stagnate inside of him most of the time, but when something called out to them they could still stab through him with a force that shook him to his core. He missed the way Saruhiko’s face transformed with just the faintest hint of a smile – the way he could pierce through a person with a single, pointed look. He missed the soft lilt of Saruhiko’s voice and the way he reached up to brush his hair aside with those deft fingers. He remembered watching Saruhiko’s hands at work, the graceful ease with which he did the things that came naturally to him, like typing or flipping his knives, or even the way he so carefully picked out the undesirable parts of his meals.

He missed those little quirks, the ones that annoyed him sometimes in the past, the frustration and the irritation and the headaches, because the sum total of everything that made Saruhiko who he was – who Yata had thought he was – had always drawn him in. He couldn’t help it.

The amount of space between them had already begun to decrease, the mingling of their breath seeming to warm the air around their faces. Yata felt the ghost of that shared breath against his lips and his heart beat harder against his chest, eyes lowering to slits. He couldn’t bring himself to close them entirely, still unwilling to completely block out the view of Saruhiko’s lidded gaze.

_He’s so…_

So. A lot of things.

He could’ve pulled back. _Should’ve_ , really – this was obviously a bad idea if he stopped to think about it. Nothing was fixed between them. Nothing was going to change. It never did. But something in him ached furiously, wanting this with a passion, and for once there was no sign of encroaching emptiness.

_I want him._ The thought passed through his mind with an unexpected fervency, even as Saruhiko sucked in a breath and deliberately closed the remaining gap between them, their lips connecting with sudden, desperate force.

The tiny pile of rational objections he was trying to gather scattered in an instant.

It took less than a second for Yata’s brain to piece together the new development, and then he was pressing back urgently, thoughts going up in flames as Saruhiko followed up on that advantage, turning his body to lean heavily against Yata.

His side hit the arm of the couch, the hard edge of it digging in as he opened his mouth to the demand of Saruhiko’s tongue, a small unconscious noise escaping him when they connected. Acting on instinct, Yata reached up to loop his arms around Saruhiko’s shoulders, aggressively pulling him closer and ignoring the pressure against his back as he turned to allow their bodies to align. Every point of contact between them felt hot – burning – and he couldn’t get enough of it.

It had been a long time… a really long time…

Still, all of it was coming back to him in a rush, feelings surging up in response to the stimulation. Saruhiko’s unique scent, the press of his cool slender fingers against Yata’s hips, the hungry motions of his lips and tongue as the kiss grew sloppy... It had never been this urgent – this _desperate_ – between them in their few failed attempts, but Yata wasn’t complaining. He could’ve drowned in it and he wouldn’t have minded.

They broke apart after several long heated moments, mouths parting with reluctance as they caught their breath. When Yata slid his eyes open a fraction, he was greeted with a sight that caused the air to catch in his throat, nearly choking him. Saruhiko’s flushed face was in front of him, his lidded eyes clouded with desire behind his the slightly fogged lens of his glasses as he returned the gaze with a matching intensity to the feelings flooding Yata’s body. His lips were noticeably pinker and slightly parted as he breathed heavily.

It was… kind of lewd. Maybe more than kind of, even. Yata’s heart, already pounding hard, seemed to kick it up another notch. Between his legs, the half-formed erection that had been the inevitable result of their actions stiffened pleasurably and a little shiver went through him.

Even just looking at each other… All of this… It felt so good.

Somewhere in the midst of scrambling to decrease what little space was left between their bodies, Saruhiko had ended up partly sprawled over him, one of Yata’s legs bent up and squashed awkwardly against the couch beside him. The position was intimate enough to bring a prickling rush of heat up his neck to his cheeks, halfway embarrassed desire causing him to squirm.

He wasn’t about to stop, though. Fuck no. It had been months since he’d felt this alive.

“Misaki,” Saruhiko mumbled, voice low and affected, and Yata barely had time to gasp out a responding “Saru – ” before his mouth was captured again, with no less urgency than before. The soft vibration of a moan against his lips caused another pleasant shudder, followed by the slick tip of Saruhiko’s tongue prodding for entry – which he was more than happy to grant.

_Are we doing it?_ Through the haze that had settled over his mind, that thought kind of snuck in – just as Saruhiko shifted against him, adjusting, and Yata felt the hard lump of an erection brush against his trapped thigh. He felt a little shock run through his body, skin prickling, even as Saruhiko stiffened briefly against him, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose before pressing harder into the kiss, fingers tightening on Yata’s hips nearly to the point of pain.

So he wasn’t the only one. _We’re doing it. Hell._ The realization came with a kind of wonder. _Right here, right now. Sex._

It was kinda sudden, but damn, it felt like it had been a long time coming. Yata met the onslaught of Saruhiko’s lips and tongue with all the passion he’d been lacking over those past months, turned on and nearly drunk on the feeling.

He had nothing to lose – _nothing_. In fact… actually…

Actually, he had _fucking everything_ to gain.

If they did this, they’d get the matching marks. Yata was sure of that; he still felt it with all of his heart and soul, even after years of trying to deny it. They were definitely soulmates, and if – _when_ – they had sex, he’d finally prove it. Saruhiko would be back with him, they’d be a team, they’d have _matching marks_ again, and nothing could tear them apart.

He’d be _Saruhiko’s soulmate_ , and he wouldn’t have to feel that dull emptiness again.

Yata closed his fingers around the fabric of Saruhiko’s work shirt, tightening his hold as a small, desperate groan escaped his throat. His head was spinning, the anticipation of both physical and emotional gratification building up fast. He thought he’d burst with it, tense excitement ready to explode within him.

Saruhiko’s fingers slid almost cautiously inward, along the join between hip and thigh, and Yata stiffened, a little tug of pleasure spiking up from between his legs at the intimate touch.

_Yeah… right there… Saruhiko…_

With his body and mind both worked up to a fever pitch, he almost didn’t hear the sharp buzz of a PDA going off – at the very least, it didn’t register as important until Saruhiko was abruptly disengaging, pulling away sharply even as Yata tried to chase his lips instinctively.

“Misaki.” Despite being as breathy as earlier, that tone was markedly different. Yata opened his eyes, confusion seeping into his muddled thoughts, and found that Saruhiko had turned his head, allowing his bangs to fall forward and partially shield his face. “Let go,” he mumbled, disengaging his hands to tap one of the arms locked around his neck.

The air was still muggy, but that seriously felt like a rush of cold air had burst in between them. Yata unclenched his fingers, loosening his hold immediately, and Saruhiko took advantage of the slackened grip to tug free, pulling back and rising from the couch in what seemed like a single motion. He turned before Yata could do more than blink at him, striding to the bar to retrieve his still-vibrating PDA from his abandoned work jacket.

The abrupt turn of events had Yata’s lust-fogged brain reeling as he struggled to catch up. _What… just…_ His eyebrows furrowed and he pushed himself back up on the seat slowly as he stared at Saruhiko’s back, heart rate still refusing to slow and breathing just starting to stabilize. His body was still vaguely buzzed, ready to go. _The hell just happened?_

Things had been going well, hadn’t they? It had seemed like it…

“Fushimi.” Saruhiko’s voice was cool and business-like, with an undertone of irritation in it that matched the obvious tension in his shoulders while he held the PDA to his ear. There was a pause, during which he picked up the jacket and began to slide it on, switching ears when needed and responding with an unhesitant, “No. I’m not busy.”

_Not busy._ That might as well have been the death flag on whatever had been about to happen. Yata stared for another moment, not quite believing it at first but with a sinking feeling gradually expanding out from the pit of his stomach. As reality imposed itself over the haze of lust and hope that had spread out to cover his common sense, a grim certainty accompanied it.

To Saruhiko, all of this had obviously been nothing but a mistake.

It was mortifying. More than that. _Devastating._ Hurt surged up at the back of Yata’s throat, nearly choking him. He had to lower his head, blocking out the sight of Saruhiko in his full blue as his chest throbbed and his eyes stung. Along with those feelings came fury. So much that he trembled with it, hands clenching automatically into fists so tight that his knuckles ached. In front of him the glass still sitting on the coffee table warbled and blurred.

_Fuck you, Saruhiko!_ He couldn’t even get the words out around the emotion clogging his throat. Yata made a sharp ‘ch’, twisting his lips into a scowl and aiming a furious glare at the table.

More than anything, he was angry with himself. For getting his hopes up when they were just going to be crushed anyway. For believing in something that had been proved impossible already, over and over. For thinking that there was any chance at all of Saruhiko coming back to him.

_Yeah, hah-fucking-hah…_

The click of Saruhiko’s boots moving across the floor drew his attention, but he didn’t look up. At least not until he heard the door jingle open, and that low voice answer, “Nothing.”

As Yata glanced up sharply, hoping for some reaction – _anything_ – Saruhiko’s cool eyes met his. There was a moment when he thought there was some hesitation there, a moment of regret even, but the expression on that familiar face was an impassive one, and Yata’s vision was still lined with furious red and the threat of tears.

“Nothing important,” Saruhiko clarified in a low mutter, and turned his gaze sharply to step through the door, leaving it to slam shut behind him.

In the silence that fell, Yata could only hear the harsh, uneven rhythm of his own breath and the thunderous pounding of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. And those last parting words.

_Nothing important, huh?_ Already the empty feeling was returning, spreading out from that gaping crater left in his soul. Yata bent forward over his knees, resting one elbow on them so he could prop up his head on the heel of his hand, right between his eyes. He let out a rough, humorless snort of a laugh, feeling more alone now than he had before he’d even seen Saruhiko.

_Yeah, maybe._

His eyes were still stinging, but he refused to let the tears fall, scowling furiously at the floor as he struggled to recover from the very clear rejection.

Might as well get used to it, because that was the trend these days as far as his life was concerned.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a reference to the first chapter of the K: Countdown manga, which takes place between Missing Kings and Return of Kings. It also refers back to something that happened in the drama cd, If There Was Homra (text translation [here](http://hikikomori-sama.tumblr.com/post/85609040392) and audio [here](https://soundcloud.com/lovedramacds/k-missing-kings-drama-cd-homra-track-01)), set between season one and Missing Kings.

It wasn’t the flawless red of Anna’s fresh Sword of Damocles that stuck out in Fushimi’s mind hours later, though the lingering memory of fire blazing up through the scar at his collar hadn’t quite faded despite everything. He lifted his fingers from the keyboard of his laptop and reached up to slide them under the edge of his shirt reflexively, giving the mark a half-hearted scratch as his thoughts wandered.

It was early in the afternoon, sunlight pouring in through the large windows, but the working office space at Scepter 4 was conspicuously empty. In point of fact, Fushimi was the only one who had ignored Awashima’s instruction to sleep while there was opportunity, leaving any non-emergency tasks to those outside of the Special Operations Squad.

Even with Homra on the verge of piecing themselves back into an active clan, things were likely to stay busy. If he didn’t take the opportunity to catch up with the reports that had been piling up, he’d be annoyed with himself later.

Besides that, it was unlikely that he’d be able to sleep right then.

Fushimi’s fingers stilled, though he didn’t pull them back. His mind kept taking him back to the same point in time. The moment when Misaki had looked at him without bitterness – without anger, without desperation – but with an uncharacteristic hesitance and uncertainty, as if he didn’t know where the twisted remains of their relationship stood either. Not the sparkling eyes of their early days, not the blend of fury and bitterness he’d gotten used to in those years of separation, and certainly not the dull weariness from recently. The feeling _this_ look had stirred up was a lot like the restlessness that had been plaguing Fushimi since he’d started on this path, but far more compelling – as if all of his instincts were calling out for some action, but his brain couldn’t – or wouldn’t – comprehend what it was. The whole thing was unnerving. He didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Misaki had been lively again – maybe not quite as carefree as before, but he’d still greeted his comrades with unrestrained enthusiasm, and rather than being annoyed by that, Fushimi felt as if some huge uneasiness he’d been carrying unknowingly had settled.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure what to make of that. It was baffling, and that was making him agitated. Unconsciously, his fingers dug in a little deeper, drawing out a sharp sting.

“Fushimi.” Awashima’s crisp voice intruded on that moment of inner reflection. Fushimi looked up as she stepped across the room toward him, pulling his hand back. She raised an eyebrow at him when their eyes met. “Didn’t I tell you earlier that we’re off duty for the rest of the day?”

He clicked his tongue. “I can’t sleep when it’s this light out.”

“I see.” She crossed her arms, studying him critically. “You realize that the purpose of a break doesn’t necessarily need to be sleep?” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “Have you eaten?”

Fushimi narrowed his eyes at her, frowning back. “Have you?”

He expected a weary sigh and a reprimand of some sort, so he was surprised when her face softened into a rueful smile instead. “I suppose that’s a fair point.”

The unexpected honesty robbed him of a proper response. Fushimi hesitated for a moment, eyeing her warily. He’d worked closely with Awashima on a number of occasions, but they’d rarely spoken on a personal level. Not that he went out of his way to speak on a personal level with _anyone_ – he hadn’t come to Scepter 4 to make friends – but Awashima was not the prying type in the first place, unlike certain others he could name. She was more than competent at what she did, possessing the ability to efficiently draw out the strengths of any given unit when the situation called for it. That fact alone made her tolerable to work with and for, despite the occasional annoyance.

At that moment, she was addressing him casually.

Somehow it put him at ease, though he wasn’t sure why. Fushimi tapped his finger on the side of his laptop, uncertain what to make of this conversation. “Did you come here for a reason or are you just checking to see if you could catch someone who snuck in to get work done?”

She raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t comment on the mild swipe he’d taken. “As a matter of fact, I came here looking for a few overdue reports.” Another wry smile. “Considering how things have been, it’s possible they were finished and not submitted.”

That was convenient, considering what he was working on – and it provided an easy way to bring this back into comfortable territory. Fushimi faced forward again, reaching out to tap the stack beside him as he eyed his laptop screen. “Tell me which ones you want, and we’ll find out how lucky you are.”

There was a brief, startled pause, and then she dutifully recited a list.

“The first, I’ve already processed.” Fushimi indicated his ‘done’ pile. “The second isn’t written yet, as far as I know – check with Kamo when he’s back. The third and fourth are in here somewhere.” He tapped his stack again. “The fifth is too, but I wouldn’t count on it being ready, since Domyoji is the one in charge of that case. Odds are, it’ll need a lot of revisions.”

Awashima made a slightly impatient noise. “I’m not sure if that boy will ever grow up,” she observed in a murmur. “Well, no matter.” Striding around the table, she pulled out the chair on the other side, opening the work laptop in front of her. “Since you’ve gathered the reports, I might as well assist you with the processing.”

Fushimi blinked at her, once again taken aback. Awashima rarely sat with them in the work room, usually busy supervising the various operations of Scepter 4 or serving as Munakata’s second under an official capacity. When he worked with her, she was more often in command of an operation for which she’d chosen to utilize his particular skillset. Processing the completed reports of the Special Operations Squad had generally been his task when he wasn’t in the field.

She raised another eyebrow at him. “I also have a vested interest in making sure this work is done, Fushimi. With two people, we’ll finish sooner.” Her other eyebrow joined the first. “Unless, of course, you have some complaint about the quality of my work?”

_What kind of question is that?_ He clicked his tongue. “I hope you’re not expecting me to answer that.”

Her expression softened again into a smile. “I’ll let it pass this once. Here.” She lifted about half of his stack and set them beside her instead. “Let’s get started.”

The atmosphere was still and peaceful as they worked. Awashima, as it turned out, was quiet and focused, unlike several others who seemed to feel the need to fill the silence with inane chatter. The soft, rapid patter of their mingled typing kept the air from growing awkwardly stilted, and their respective stacks began to lower with an efficient speed.

He was in the process of reaching for the final report in his stack when the sound of a PDA buzzing made him pause. In the split second that it took him to confirm that it wasn't his, Awashima had pulled the device from her coat. "Sorry," she said to him, rising from her seat and moving toward the back of the room before answering. "Awashima."

There was a brief pause, and then he heard her sigh. "You could have said something earlier." Another break, and then, "So I understood. But still..." The words trailed off, and then she made a small, amused sound. "There's nothing to thank me for. Scepter 4 was protecting its own interests." Another pause, and he could hear the smile in her voice when she responded. "I intend to. Is that all?" After only a short moment, she added, "Then please give my regards to your new King. Goodbye."

_Ah._ Not that he couldn't have guessed who it was based on the tone, but that last bit confirmed it. "You're still trading intel even now?" he commented when she returned to her seat.

"Nothing has changed in that respect," she confirmed, without batting an eye.

_Nothing, huh?_ Fushimi frowned at her, hesitating for just a moment before going ahead with the question that had come immediately to mind. "You and Kusanagi-san aren't soulmates, are you?"

She stared at him, obviously taken aback by his directness, and then sighed. "That's a bold question." Her voice was dry. "Well, I suppose it’s natural that something like this would come up. As a matter of fact, we don't have that kind of relationship." A corner of her mouth turned up. "Not that the possibility hasn't occurred to me."

The candid admission had him furrowing his brows. "You two have talked about it?"

"That's not necessary." Awashima shook her head, crossing her arms and leaning back in her seat. "We share something of an understanding as the second in command of two traditionally opposed clans. It would be pointless to even discuss such a thing as long as that reality remains." She offered him a small, rueful smile. "I'm sure he's as aware as I am that our compatibility may be high enough, but we have responsibilities that won't allow for it."

The simple, pragmatic explanation was strangely unsatisfying. Fushimi felt his frown deepen without knowing what it was that unsettled him. Was it that easy a decision to make, to not pursue a soulmate connection with someone who seemed like a likely match? And... traditionally opposed clans? The intricate sword mark at the back of Munakata's neck came immediately to mind as he considered that response. He wondered if she knew about it.

If it signified what he thought it did, what would her thoughts be about _that_ connection?

As soon as that particular thought occurred to him, an insidious whisper slid up into his brain with another question: what would her thoughts have been if he'd come to Scepter 4 wearing a matching mark to Misaki's?

It was impossible, of course, but Fushimi felt his fingers twitch against the keyboard in front of him, the urge to reach up and scratch at his burned Homra mark rising, along with the same baseless urgency from before. The idea of a soulmate match with Misaki didn't bring quite the same feeling of sinking dread that it had in the past, but it came with several uncomfortable memories all the same.

Memories that weren't even necessarily uncomfortable in the same way they had been.

_That’s the problem, isn’t it?_

More often lately, he couldn’t keep away the thoughts he’d always been able to overwrite in the past with the memory of Misaki’s furious face. The sharp bark of Misaki’s laugh felt as real in his mind’s ear as it had been in person. He could see the inward curve of Misaki’s shoulders and back as he rubbed at the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. The way the longer strands of his hair curled around the line of taut skin there had always made Fushimi’s fingers itch to brush it, and the play of muscle beneath Misaki’s clothing as his body moved had fascinated him more than he would’ve liked to admit. Misaki could never sit still; he was always in motion, gaze sharp and smile bright. Even when he wasn’t smiling, Fushimi could feel the energy radiating from him, and the passion lurking in the warm color of his eyes.

Even in those days, his eyes had sometimes traced the slope of Misaki’s jaw, the outline of his lips. He wanted to feel those places under his mouth and run his hands along the parts of Misaki’s body that were hidden normally.

The desire was more or less understandable, though. It was just a physical reaction, after all. It had led to more than one careless mistake, which was irritating, but at least it made sense. It was the restless feeling that accompanied it that he still couldn’t comprehend – the insistent urging that had become worse when Misaki’s energy had dimmed, gnawing at Fushimi with ferocity during the moments when he’d seen or encountered him.

There was no energy, no passion within Misaki during that time, and yet he still felt that draw of his presence. It had been easier to turn his back and walk away than to deal with it or try to sort out what it meant, but it had left with that hollow, unsatisfied feeling every single time.

Even now, he didn’t feel any urge to rile Misaki as he had before. Something had changed irrevocably, and he couldn’t put his finger on what – or how, for that matter. His only real clue – and one he would’ve liked to ignore – was that single encounter in the middle of it all when he’d been unable to still the flow of desire within himself.

It had drawn a response, he couldn’t deny that.

Fushimi clicked his tongue automatically against the pleasant shiver that overtook his body with the memory. He hadn’t wanted to stop – probably wouldn’t have if the interruption hadn’t come – and it wasn’t purely for physical reasons. It wasn’t anything to do with _soulmates_ , either, although he suspected that was a large part of Misaki’s motivation.

_As if it would’ve even gone that way in the first place…_

In that moment, Misaki had seemed like he was drowning and had clung to Fushimi as if he were a lifeline. And something within him had wanted – _needed_ – to respond to that desperation.

He wasn’t sure what that said about him. It was disturbing.

Across from him, Awashima cleared her throat; when his gaze focused on her again, she tilted her head to the side questioningly. “If you do need a break, there’s no reason to push,” she reminded him, and uncrossed her arms to indicate their two nearly-completed piles. “We’ve already made a considerable amount of progress.”

Once again, Fushimi had to appreciate her habit of not prying. “There’s no point leaving it with only this much to go,” he mumbled, attempting to shove back the confusing blend of emotions in his mind as he reached for the final report in his stack. “You can go if you want.”

“I wasn’t asking for my sake.” Even without looking, he could hear the smile in her voice again. “Let’s continue, then.”

It was strange, but somehow as the sound of typing filled the silence between them again, the afternoon sun gradually darkening into twilight as it poured in through the tall windows, Fushimi felt a comfortable feeling spreading across his entire body. For the first time in a long while, that restless urging at the back of his thoughts had stilled, and he had a sense of peace.

He didn’t really know what to make of that either, so he pushed it from his thoughts and bent his attention to the work at hand.

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of Anna’s soft footsteps as she went up to her room for the night was the only noise in Bar Homra during that moment, but Yata found he didn’t mind the silence that much. In the bar they’d just reopened, with the light buzz of his first taste of alcohol warming his body, he felt comfortable.

It was enough to make the smile on his face widen, eyes shutting with contentment.

Homra was back together, and he wasn’t alone anymore. That alone was enough for him, but he didn’t think he’d ever shake the weight of what had happened. His initial thought when their clan had reformed was that the empty feeling from before would be gone and he’d never have to worry about it again, but that hadn’t exactly been the case. There was a lot to think about. Anna had given them all hope – and a place to belong once again – but it didn’t erase the heavy sense of something irreplaceable being gone. He still felt the grief pulsing strongly at the back of his mind, and couldn’t quite rid himself of the guilt for all the things he hadn’t done.

That emptiness was a faded threat in his soul, a scar that wouldn’t quite heal.

Yata figured it was his reminder that there was more to be feared in life than enemies. That period in his life when he thought he’d lost everything wasn’t something he was about to forget. He was going to do his best this time not to have any regrets. If he at least tried to understand the important people around him better, there wouldn’t be so much disconnect between him and them.

A recent memory flared up behind his closed eyelids – Saruhiko, with his impassive frown, turning his face away as Yata fumbled for words to express his gratitude. It came with the distant throb of an old ache, different from before.

_That guy’s kind of a special case, huh?_

“Something on your mind, Yata-chan?” Kusanagi’s voice cut into his thoughts; when he opened his eyes again, his older friend was giving him a small smile. “You can go if you want. Not that I mind the company.” There was a bit of a wistful edge in his gaze. “Tell you the truth, it feels a bit different in here now.”

_Without Mikoto and Totsuka around,_ Yata’s mind instantly supplied, and he felt something clench a little within him. It wasn’t the all-encompassing grief from before, but… Hell, he didn’t think it’d ever be entirely gone. Looking up at Kusanagi’s face, he was pretty sure he wasn’t alone in that respect.

_Trying to understand the important people…_ It didn’t have to be just Anna.

Swallowing against the remains of that ache, Yata leaned forward on the bar counter, elbows resting on the surface. “Kusanagi-san,” he started, feeling a bit awkward about it but determined to press onward. “Y’know, there’s something I’ve been kinda meaning to say – or, uh, I mean apologize for…” He shifted his weight to reach up with one hand and scratch at the back of his head. “How should I put this…?”

“Ah.” Kusanagi’s smile became more of a grimace. “Yata-chan, there’s no need to apologize – ”

“No, I gotta say this!” Lowering his hand, Yata leaned forward, meeting Kusanagi’s mildly startled gaze squarely. “Just hear me out, okay? Please!”

The grimace relaxed into a more serious expression. “All right.” Kusanagi leaned against the bar on his side, his gaze intent. “I’m listening.”

“About… that time…” Despite his resolve, it still felt awkward. Yata resisted the urge to lower his face, determined to face this head on. “When you told us you were closing the bar... I lost it. Those – those things I said, back then… I didn’t mean it. I was upset. But that’s not an excuse!” On the counter, he balled his hands into loose fists. “Kusanagi-san… I’m sorry! Really, truly sorry!”

At that he did bow his head, residual shame flowing through his body in waves. “I expected you to be a certain way all the time, just for my own sake.” He swallowed down the lump that had risen at the back of his throat, forcing himself to continue. “When you weren't what I wanted, I lashed out. It was selfish of me. I... really, I'm sorry."

There was a significant pause. Yata found himself trembling with emotion, tense as he waited for a reaction to his words.

Finally, Kusanagi heaved a sigh. “When you say things like that, you really sound like an adult now, Yata-chan,” he remarked. There was something weary in his tone. “Still… you don’t need to bow your head. After all, you weren’t the only one making mistakes that day.”

He hadn’t expected that. Yata jerked his head up, surprised, and found himself the subject of a rueful, slightly pained look. “I have an apology of my own to make,” Kusanagi admitted, once their eyes met. “Truth is, I lashed out at you too. I could write it off by saying I was grieving just like you were, but I’m the one who’s supposed to be the adult here.” He shut his eyes briefly. “I’ve had time to think it over, and it wasn’t fair of me. How pathetic, huh?” That came with a slight scoff, but when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was still serious. “I’m sorry for it, Yata. Sometimes I forget… we were both there, after all.”

The unexpectedly subdued tone had that aching lump rising at the back of Yata’s throat again. “Kusanagi-san…” Even as he felt something tense within him start to give with the return apology, the fresh reminder of their shared experience had him swallowing hard. In that moment of raw honesty, he felt open enough to offer a low, pained, “I still dream about it sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Kusanagi sighed again, straightening. His eyes were distant. “So do I.”

It didn’t feel like there was anything else to be said. The moment of silence that stretched out following that affirmation felt thick with remembrance and grief.

Somehow, there was something freeing in that shared understanding, too. Yata reached up to rub the moisture from the corners of his eyes roughly, managing a soft huff of a laugh. “Things got weird, huh? My bad.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Kusanagi eased back from the counter, offering a small sideways smile. “It’s not so bad to have moments like this once in a while.”

“Got that right!” Yata grinned back at him roughly, and then slumped forward with an exaggerated motion. “Man, I’m glad I got that off my chest! It’s something I really regretted, y’know?”

“I know how you feel,” Kusanagi agreed, with a bit of humor. “Though… one other thing I regret is not having a chance to be open with you – not just you, Yata-chan, but everyone else, too.” His smile turned rueful. “I had reasons – and it’s not that they weren’t valid, but given the way things turned out, it seems it just caused unnecessary grief in the end. Can’t promise I’ll break the habit, but I’ll try to trust you in the future.” Their eyes met again, and the smile widened a bit. “Try to keep your head if you can – I’ll be relying on you.”

Yata couldn’t help but perk up at that, straightening in his seat with pride. “Leave it to me!” He thumped his fist against his chest enthusiastically. “I’ve already pledged my life to Anna and Homra – I’ll give it my all! And I won’t let you down!”

If anything, he expected a smile and fond agreement, so it was a bit surprising when Kusanagi gave him a serious look instead. “Let me share something with you, Yata – one adult to another.” He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the counter so they were closer to being eye to eye. “Never pledge your entire life to anything. In Homra’s case, you’ll always be our Yatagarasu. But don’t forget that’s only a part of who you are as a whole. If you haven’t yet, you should start thinking about what kind of man you want to be – and what steps you can take to start getting there.”

Yata blinked at him, taken aback. “Only a part…?” It seemed unreal to look at it that way. The idea of thinking beyond Homra – beyond _being Yatagarasu_ – wasn’t something he’d thought about. When Homra wasn’t in his life, there hadn’t been anything – just that endless, consuming emptiness. Didn’t that mean there really wasn’t anything else for him?

Somehow, that thought was… kinda scary.

_Well, there was one thing…_ Not that he wanted to think about it, but he still kept coming back to it, as fixated as he had been from the start. That one stupid, painful, _traitorous_ bit of hope he’d let himself fall back on – the retreat to his younger years, when all he’d wanted or needed was to be _Saruhiko’s soulmate._

No point thinking about that. Yata curled his fingers into loose fists, trying not to scowl. It wasn’t like he could help it. All it took was looking into Saruhiko’s eyes, catching a hint of that mingled wariness and intensity, and he was lost. Even now, he shivered a little just thinking about it. Saruhiko’s mouth on his, warm and eager; Saruhiko’s hands on his body, mapping every crevice as if he wanted to commit them to memory. And then there was Saruhiko himself in the circle of Yata’s arms, the excitement of being able to feel the press and pliancy of that familiar thin frame against him as he held tight stirring to life within him and clouding any chance of reason. He’d thought about it a lot since. Couldn’t help it.

_That guy’s not easy to forget._ Even with so much reason to do so, Yata just couldn’t.

It kinda didn’t help that some time while everyone was apart, Kousuke and Eric had picked up a pair of deep brown, perfectly matched paw print marks on their opposing shoulders. He was happy for them of course, but still, sometimes…

Well, okay, he was jealous. That was normal, though. Right?

Pushing that thought – and the bitterness that came with it – down, Yata summoned up a sheepish grin in response to the conversation. “Not sure if I really get it, but…” He still had his resolve, and he wasn’t gonna back down from that. No room for doubts now. “Y’know, I wanna be someone who my important people can rely on.”

And if he was being selfish… also someone they wouldn’t want to leave behind. But he wasn’t gonna say it.

“That so?” Kusanagi smiled back, straightening again. “Well, maybe try to keep that thought at the back of your mind anyway. You might find other pieces of the answer coming to you here and there.”

“Uh, right. Got it.” Honestly, he still wasn’t sure if he _totally_ got it, but he didn’t have to think about it right away. Yata frowned a bit. His earlier thoughts had kicked something else loose from the back of his mind. “By the way, Kusanagi-san… Can I ask you something? It’s about Mikoto-san.”

Kusanagi gave him a questioning look. “What’s on your mind?”

He’d been wondering about it for the longest time now – and he _did_ want to try and understand his original King, as best he could despite everything. “Did he…? I mean, Totsuka-san wasn’t just teasing me way back then about the soulmate thing, right? Mikoto-san really did have one, didn’t he?”

“Ah…” At that, Kusanagi looked a bit pained. “Yeah,” he admitted, after a second’s hesitation. “He did.”

_He did._ Those words felt like they buzzed through Yata’s brain. He leaned forward, anxious to find out more. “So then, why…?” Suddenly unsure of how to word the confusion coursing through him, he stopped there, eyebrows bunching together.

_Why wouldn’t he say anything? Why’d we never meet this person? Shouldn’t it have been awesome, finding a soulmate match?_

Shouldn’t it have fixed things? Made it better, even… even when…

Kusanagi seemed to pick up on most of his uncertainty without the words coming out. “Why wasn’t it a celebration, you mean? Why didn’t that person intervene or magically fix things in the end?” He sighed heavily, looking away, and muttered almost to himself, “Well, in a way that person did intervene…”

Yata stared at him, more confused than ever. “Huh?”

“Never mind.” Kusanagi shook his head, not quite meeting Yata’s gaze. His expression was unreadable. “I don’t think it’d do you much good to know the person, but I will say this much…” When their eyes met again, his gaze was serious. “It wasn’t a match that could have worked in the long run, given the circumstances.”

The words didn’t sink in immediately. _A match that couldn’t have worked…_ Yata frowned back, unable to reconcile that with what he’d always known. “But… if they were soulmates…”

“Yata-chan…” Kusanagi shot him a glance that was almost pitying. “That doesn’t really mean much, you know. It tells you something, sure, but it doesn’t change your relationships for you or fix any problems with them.” He shrugged. “In the end, they’re just a set of marks, after all.”

Yata jerked upright in his seat, shocked. “What are you saying, Kusanagi-san?” _Just a set of marks?_ The words were a blow to one of his most closely held ideals. “Isn’t finding your soulmate the best thing that could happen to you? How could it be _just_ a set of marks?” Carried away in his passion on the subject, he demanded, “What about Kousuke and Eric? You’re saying they’re nothing but a set of marks?”

That earned him a sigh, and Kusanagi briefly shut his eyes. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Yata. I never said it was a bad thing.” He looked wry when he opened his eyes again. “Let me ask you this, then: d’you think Kousuke and Eric treat each other different, now that they have those marks?”

It wasn’t a question he’d expected. Yata blinked, hastily scanning back through his memory. “Eh… well…”

Kusanagi didn’t wait for him to collect himself. “You think they didn’t care about each other as much as they do now, that it?”

“Ah…” The answer to that was obvious. “No, but – ”

“ _But_ ,” Kusanagi continued relentlessly, “you’re okay with saying all that care and effort and consideration doesn’t make a difference, right? Just the fact that they’re soulmates?”

It was hard to argue when he put it like _that_. Yata frowned back, his mind working fast to try and process the contradictions. The words resonated, but it was hard to try and piece together why or what it meant for him. “That’s not,” he started, and then paused, frustrated. “I mean…”

Kusanagi gave him a second, then shook his head when nothing else came, a rueful smile forming. “I’m not trying to bully you here, Yata-chan. If anything, I’d like to see you think these things through on your own and see what you come up with – even if we end up disagreeing in the end. Just challenge yourself.” With that, his gaze took on a knowing look. “Maybe you’ll find some answers. Or closure.”

That hit uncomfortably close to home. Yata squirmed in his seat, warmth prickling across his face. “Y-yeah, well…” He reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “I-I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure any more if there would be an opportunity to find answers when it came to Saruhiko. Or closure, for that matter. He only knew that he wanted to, desperately, somewhere deep down that he didn’t like to acknowledge openly. There was still the burning hope within him that he was right, they really were soulmates, and once Saruhiko realized, he’d see what a mistake he’d made and explain everything. And then they could move on.

After everything, now he was finally starting to realize that he might have to work on accepting that he’d never find out for sure. And that moving on might mean doing it by himself.

Having gone through so much aching loneliness, the thought should’ve scared him. But somehow, despite everything, it really didn’t. Mostly, Yata was just confused. And maybe a bit lost. He didn’t know where to start with this crap yet.

Nothing else to do but move forward and try his best, really.

Kusanagi offered him a grin, as if guessing what was going through his head. “Any time.”


	7. Chapter 7

The glowing numbers on Fushimi’s PDA read ‘1:15’ when he checked it as he left his dorm room. He clicked his tongue, letting his hand fall to his side heavily before sliding the device back into the pocket of the slacks he’d pulled on. Above his head, one of the faulty hallway lights buzzed spitefully at him, but he ignored it, pulling the door shut behind him and moving on without a backward glance.

Since they’d joined forces with Homra to coordinate their defense and attacks against Jungle, sleep had been fleeting. Not because they were particularly busy – if anything, it had been less hectic after the initial awkwardness had been sorted – but because his brain didn’t seem to want to shut up and leave him alone.

It bothered him. Not even just ‘it’ – everything. Fushimi narrowed his eyes, trudging down the hall to the shared kitchen area. Munakata’s somber but steady agreement to the dubious proposal of ‘alliance’ offered by the flaky Silver King, his gaze still clear and confident but with an underlying weariness, had been unsettling. Fushimi wasn’t sure why he’d felt that way, but somehow despite all of the sound reasons offered, he got the sense that this wasn’t the direction his superior would have chosen under ordinary circumstances. He was fairly certain in that moment that Awashima had shared the sentiment; the look they’d exchanged felt like it had said it all.

_This isn’t normal._ The restlessness he’d been plagued with on and off – more so since the Captain’s Weismann levels had begun to rise – had stirred to life again even before Misaki had voiced his honest enthusiasm with the idea.

_Misaki…_ Why would he be in favor, anyway? Hadn’t he always hated Scepter 4? Something bitter curled at the corners of Fushimi’s mouth, tugging them downward as he thought about it. That hatred – that sense of ‘other’ – had been the only thing tying them together since he’d left Homra. If Misaki could stand there and proclaim his support so loudly and obnoxiously, then what was left?

What was it that tugged at him now, if the urge to rile Misaki to a fury had faded? Why was he still so fixated, so certain that there was something he wanted desperately to do?

_Aside from the obvious…_ Fushimi clicked his tongue, pushing aside the disturbingly clear memory of Misaki’s flushed face and heated eyes. Not that he didn’t have those thoughts too – he’d grown used to them by now – but setting that still-burning flame aside, this wasn’t a physical urge. It was mental. Emotional. He’d felt enough longing in his lifetime to be able to place it, but what he couldn’t place was the aim.

If not bright-eyed admiration or blazing hatred, what exactly did he want from Misaki?

As he rounded a corner in the dimly lit hallway, Fushimi noticed a glow emanating from the opposite end, a telltale sign that the kitchen light was on. It was quiet in the dorms – everyone either sleeping or on duty – which was why he hadn’t bothered to do more than pull on a pair of pants and a hoodie after getting out of bed. The intent had been to look for something that could effectively distract him from the struggle to sleep without keeping him awake even longer.

It was probably a pointless effort, but lying there stewing in his thoughts had made this seem like the better option.

There was the sound of movement from the kitchen, but no voices – which probably meant only one person, or possibly two. That was manageable. Fushimi turned to step inside, the bright light from inside the room contrasting enough with the dim hallway that he squinted for a moment at the empty table before looking past it to see Akiyama at the counter in the kitchen area.

“Fushimi-san.” The older man looked a bit startled, but his expression softened into a smile easily. “Evening. You’re up late.”

_So are you._ But then again, Akiyama had been on duty until just a short while ago, so it wasn’t worth pointing out. Fushimi made a non-committal noise in response, moving past the table toward the kitchen. “I needed something to drink.”

Akiyama nodded in acknowledgement. “I was about to brew some water for tea – if that’s what you’re here for, I’ll add some for you.”

“Yeah.” As he reached the entry to that small space, Fushimi paused. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

There was a short moment of silence, more pronounced with the lack of chatter in the air. This area normally got a fair amount of traffic in the evenings, but things still hadn’t quite stabilized since Jungle had been keeping them on edge. There was an anxious atmosphere that pervaded not only the dorms but all of Scepter 4 – a vague uneasiness that hung above everyone’s heads and spilled into their interactions in even the most casual moments. The alliance with Homra, while not universally popular, had lightened that mood some, but not much. Like everything else, that cheer felt… forced.

Even if only he and Awashima were truly aware of the Captain’s Weismann level, the strain that Jungle had been forcing on them was enough that even the lowest ranks felt the vise closing.

Once again, Fushimi felt a surge of that now-familiar restlessness, and pushed it back irritably. For some time now, it hadn’t just come up in response to Misaki, and he didn’t quite know what to make of that either. Munakata’s chipped Sword of Damocles… Awashima’s increasingly careworn face… The strain he could see right now in Akiyama’s shoulders even as he carefully prepared the kettle. It was the same strain he’d seen in many of his co-workers’ postures, and it stirred that same feeling.

Wanting to do something without knowing _what_ was aggravating. Fushimi clicked his tongue, letting his eyes drift in search of a distraction.

As Akiyama lifted his arm to place the kettle on the element, Fushimi’s gaze was drawn there, to the clear and precise image of an orange kitten’s face displayed in beautiful detail just below the inward bend of his elbow.

He’d seen the mark before, of course – both Akiyama and Benzai seemed to prefer short sleeves in the dorm – but it never failed to make his skin prickle, the fine hairs rising in response to the emotion it elicited. It wasn’t even unpleasant these days, more of an uncomfortably strong awareness that drew up a slew of particularly clear memories.

The black and white dice, of course, but also that sharp burnished sword at the back of Munakata’s neck. The solemn expression on his face, accompanied by some emotion Fushimi couldn’t place. Awashima’s small, rueful smile as she described her own situation.

Misaki’s bright, triumphant grin in the moment when they’d received their Homra marks in the same spot… The way his eyes had brimmed with emotion in the brief instant before he’d let out an ecstatic whoop and thrust both fists into the air.

It was both painful and seductive, now. Fushimi reached up without thinking to dip his fingers under his shirt, the small rush of pain drowning out the memories. “Why a cat?” he asked abruptly, pulling his hand back as he sought to move past the moment.

Akiyama blinked at him, obviously caught off guard by the question. “Huh? Oh…” He smiled again, tilting the arm up slightly. “This, you mean?”

_Isn’t it obvious?_ “Yeah.”

“I’m not sure if you’ll believe it, honestly.” The smile turned a bit lopsided. “Some of the others probably think I made it up, and Benzai refuses to confirm or deny it for me, so…” He offered a small, helpless shrug. “I guess you can judge for yourself. The truth is, when we were rooming together as cadets ages ago, I had a hard time getting close to him. You know how quiet Benzai is.” That came with a fond look, Akiyama’s eyes going momentarily distant. “Well, one day I was coming back from shopping and I caught him on the street feeding a stray kitten.” The gaze turned down to the design on his arm with that, smile widening just a fraction. “Cliché, isn’t it? He didn’t see me, and I didn’t say anything, but I remember thinking that side of him was sort of interesting. So I bought some cat food and left it on his desk.” He looked up to meet Fushimi’s eyes again. “He never said anything – I think he was embarrassed, actually – but I kept it up until we graduated. We ended up gradually getting closer, becoming partners, and… well… the rest, obviously.” That came with a small, awkward shrug and apologetic smile.

His reactions, more than the cheesy story, were what struck Fushimi: the obvious contentment in his expression and the way his eyes gained that tiny bit of warmth as he spoke. It was consistent with what he’d seen before of their partnership, but still somehow more real – more _unavoidable_ – now that Akiyama had spoken directly about it.

It shook him. Munakata’s narrative – and even Awashima’s, if he stretched it – could fit with what he’d always thought about soulmates, but Akiyama and Benzai were so outside of what he expected that he wasn’t sure how to take them. It brought a tiny thread of doubt to life within him, wriggling wormlike into his thoughts and stirring up feelings he didn’t particularly want.

There was no way that soulmates were _good_ – he’d seen enough evidence to dismiss that theory outright – but if they weren’t necessarily _bad_ , then…

He wasn’t sure, and that was irritating. Fushimi clicked his tongue softly. “Didn’t that change things?”

“What?” Akiyama’s expression was quizzical. He glanced again at the mark on his arm, and his face cleared. “Ah, this? Well, we’d already been together for some time beforehand, so it didn’t make much of a difference.” He shrugged again. “By that point we were already in Scepter 4, so there weren’t any restrictions on us – aside from some teasing, we didn’t encounter much trouble.”

That wasn’t exactly what he’d asked. Fushimi resisted the urge to click his tongue again. “You didn’t suddenly start seeing stars in each other’s eyes then, I take it,” he muttered, almost under his breath.

Akiyama’s ears were sharp; he shot Fushimi a startled look. “Well, no. I mean, of course not.” The smile he offered was just a bit bemused. “I’ve always felt that these marks reflect the state of our relationship, rather than the other way around. They’re just… there. It’s like exchanging rings, but automatic.”

Fushimi made a soft, derisive sound, dissatisfied with that explanation. “Involuntary, you mean.”

“I guess you could look at it that way.” Akiyama let out a small sigh, still smiling despite his acknowledgement of the unpleasant reality. “But we went into it knowing that it could happen. Both of us were fine with either outcome – it wasn’t like it would change things between us.”

_Wouldn’t it?_ Would they really have been okay with continuing, without that all-important soulmate connection? Fushimi thought back to Awashima’s words, about making the active choice not to pursue it. He could still clearly remember how Munakata had spoken about choosing to disregard the outcome. Not everyone was like his classmates, buying into the hype. Not everyone was like Misaki, thinking it was a perfect system.

_It isn’t perfect, not even close. It’s rotten to the core…_

When he looked up at Akiyama’s calm and certain expression, he felt the foundation of that belief crumble a little within him.

Fushimi clicked his tongue, irritated with the direction of his thoughts. “You actually talked about it?” he asked almost snidely, trying to bury the rest.

“Of course,” Akiyama responded patiently, politely ignoring his tone in favor of responding honestly. “We talk about everything. Even the small things.” He tilted his head a bit, almost as if to question the direction of the conversation. “I think that’s what got us through the tough spots. If you can talk about what’s bothering you and trust your partner to listen and address it, even if they don’t understand why, then you’re in a good situation.” He offered another small shrug. “Though that’s just my opinion. Maybe other people’s experiences are different.”

The words touched on something within him that Fushimi hadn’t realized was still quite so sensitive, causing his breath to catch momentarily as a chill ran along his skin. An uncomfortable blend of realization and mortification came along with it and he made a noncommittal sound in response, turning his gaze aside as something hurtful rose up alarmingly at the back of his throat.

_It doesn’t matter now._ But still…

When they were young, he had never explained anything about his situation to Misaki. Not his family, not his thoughts about it, and definitely not his own feelings. They had talked, of course, but not about anything substantial. Instead, he’d relied on Misaki’s instincts and his ability to reach 100 point answers without Fushimi having said anything.

_Stupid._ Swallowing against the rush of emotion, Fushimi mentally berated himself. Without thinking, he reached up to touch the remains of the mark at his chest, fingers curling at the tips but not digging in. Not even tucking under the fabric of his shirt. Just… there.

It wasn’t like Misaki had minded. Those things had become routine between them, a comfortable loop of not talking and not listening, and somehow still forming an understanding. And now, as he fit it into those terms in his head, he could see exactly where it had fallen off the track. Nothing had changed between them at all. Fushimi had still not spoken, and Misaki had continued to blissfully make assumptions as he always had, failing to recognize that nearly all of them were wrong.

The problem wasn’t Homra, though maybe that was the catalyst. The problem was that their system had been flawed from the start. It was no wonder things had fallen apart between them.

Once again, Fushimi felt that restless urge swirling around the mess of emotion that had already formed in his body. He didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know what he wanted from himself, and it was starting to grow from irritating to aggravating that it kept coming up. He let out a sharp breath, resolving to push it back.

The revelation, if you could call it that, didn’t change things. Not everything could be fixed just by realizing how it had broken. He didn’t need that relationship they’d once had, not anymore.

Not that he was sure _what_ he needed, these days…

The whistle of the kettle cut into that thought, followed by Akiyama’s voice. “Looks like it’s ready.” He was reaching out to lift it from the heat when Fushimi glanced up again. “Here, I might as well pour for both of us…”

Two cups had already been set out beforehand, so there was no ‘might as well’. Rather than being annoyed by that, though, Fushimi felt a little of the storm in his thoughts settle. Courtesy was such a common habit of Akiyama’s that it had stopped being remarkable. In a way, there was some comfort in it.

That was a ridiculous thought. But still, Fushimi didn’t feel any particular dissatisfaction as he accepted the steaming cup. Again, as it had when he’d worked with Awashima nearly a year ago, it felt like the restlessness within him stilled naturally. “Thanks.”

Akiyama smiled back at him. “You’re welcome.”

When he returned to his room with the cup in his hand and the echoes of the conversation faded into a memory, somehow Fushimi felt he’d be able to sleep that night after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“Fushimi-kun.”

The familiar timbre of his boss’s voice calling his name had Fushimi halting immediately at the back of the lecture hall. He backtracked to meet up at the top of the stairs leading up from the seats. “What is it, Captain?”

Munakata’s expression was unreadable – not the usual keen interest in his eyes that Fushimi was used to from his time working for Scepter 4, but the serious frown adapted for opponents or those whose capability or loyalty were in question.

It fit the situation. At the moment, the Dresden Slate was under Scepter 4’s jurisdiction and yet the Silver King felt confident enough to throw together half-baked schemes regarding its protection. If Munakata had been anything more positive than neutral in this situation, Fushimi would have questioned whether he was even the same person he had been.

Though, considering how distant he had become since taking control of Mihashira Tower, that scenario wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility.

Somehow, the thought came with a sinking feeling in Fushimi’s stomach.

There was a cool directness in Munakata’s gaze now. “What are your thoughts regarding the plan proposed by the Silver King?”

Fushimi paused only long enough to consider their surroundings. The hall had been chosen for its soundproofing, and then thoroughly searched for recording devices. Further, most of the audience had cleared and those remaining were quite firmly out of hearing distance.

In that sense, it was at least as private as Scepter 4’s headquarters, if not more so.

Which meant he could speak openly. “Do you want my honest opinion?” Pausing only long enough to be sure no protest was incoming, Fushimi went on. “It’s shaky at best. We’re reliant on a certainty that we know everything Jungle is capable of throwing at us. Given the source” – at that, he shot a dubious glance toward the podium that the Silver clan was still gathered around – “I’m not sure if we can boast that. Frankly, I don’t even know if our best surveillance is capable of giving us that information.” He frowned. “The possibility of something unknown tipping the balance is higher than I’d like.”

“Those are my exact thoughts,” Munakata agreed, obviously without pleasure. “I must admit, I had hoped for better, but given the circumstances, we must endeavor to make use of what resources we have available.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, unsatisfied with that response. “Don’t you think a backup plan of some sort might be necessary? This is the Slate itself we’re talking about, not clan territory.”

“Indeed.” Without changing expression, Munakata lowered his voice. “To that end, I have a mission for you, Fushimi-kun.”

 That was unexpected. Fushimi blinked, momentarily taken off-guard, and then straightened. “What are the specs?”

“Unfortunately, I have nothing so official for you in this case. However, I believe that this is a mission that would only retrain any possibility of success in your hands.” Munakata reached up to push his glasses higher on his nose, remaining stony faced as he continued. “Should the Silver King’s plan fail, my orders are to infiltrate Jungle’s base and provide assistance in the reacquisition of the Slate.”

The bluntness of that order felt like a blow – a sucker punch, more like. Fushimi stared back, momentarily caught speechless.

It wasn’t that so much the danger to his own person that threw him as it was the sheer _recklessness_ of the idea. Yeah, he was used to being Munakata’s trump card in all manner of situations where someone who didn’t necessarily play by the rules was called for, but this was… Frankly, there were even more unknown variables in this plan than the previous one, and cold practicality reminded him that he, himself, was perhaps the most unpredictable. Not that he expected to fail, but leaving the entirety of such an important situation in one person’s hands was extremely careless.  Besides that, while he couldn’t say he didn’t like having complete autonomy, given that it was his preferred working condition, it hadn’t escaped his notice that he’d be _entirely_ on his own – no backup for the backup plan, more or less. No superior or subordinates. No home base to retreat to. There would have to be zero contact with Scepter 4 for the plan to succeed, and even if it _did_ succeed, the probability that he’d live to see any of them again was…

He wasn’t sure why that thought bothered him, but something unpleasant was stirring in his stomach in response all the same.

_Don’t be ridiculous._ Swallowing back those misgivings, Fushimi returned his boss’s gaze evenly. By proposing such a wild solution, Munakata was placing complete trust on him, evidently without the slightest misgiving. And given the state of his Weismann level lately…

That was a sobering thought, but it seemed to do the trick, a sense of purpose overwhelming the discomfort from earlier. “’Assistance’ is pretty vague, you know,” Fushimi pointed out, implicitly accepting the order. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”

Munakata inclined his head just slightly. “I shall trust in your judgement when the time comes.”

There was that word again. _Trust._ Something about it stirred up that restless longing, implacable as always. Fushimi studied his boss’s face, a little shiver of something that he couldn’t classify as either pleasant or unpleasant running through his body as he considered the implications.

He still didn’t know what it was he was looking for or what would satisfy that feeling, but it didn’t matter. _Any_ mission that Munakata could throw at him was what he’d promised when he’d joined Scepter 4, and this wasn’t going to be his first exception.

Munakata glanced at the podium again, where Kusanagi and Anna seemed to be moving on towards the exits at the front. Awashima still waited at the bottom, obviously on Munakata’s orders, her expression grim.

No doubt he wouldn’t be able to mention this to her, either. Vaguely, Fushimi wondered how she’d react. How would his subordinates react? It was obvious that none of them could be told what was happening without compromising the integrity of the plan, so…

_It’s not like it matters._ He hadn’t joined Scepter 4 to make friends. He wasn’t interested in comrades or cooperation or anything as banal as friendship.

That assertion felt unexpected hollow right at the moment.

“If you should have any messages to leave behind,” Munakata said, drawing his attention again, “you may entrust them to my care.” A pause. “Though I cannot promise to personally deliver such things, you can rest assured that they will be received by the intended recipients.”

That was clear enough. _In case you die. In fact, in case_ both _of us die, because that’s as likely an outcome as any._ It was a depressing thought – that he might die alone without knowing whether the mission’s success meant anything in the end.

Messages, though…

Immediately, Misaki’s face came to mind, with such immediacy and clarity that Fushimi couldn’t resist the urge to click his tongue, frustrated with himself. There was no reason to leave something behind for Misaki. There was no relationship between them – not friendship, not intimacy, and definitely no soulmate bond, despite the number of so-called ‘attempts’.

Still, his chest clenched painfully at the thought of leaving things as they were.

Munakata seemed to take _something_ away from his silence, continuing smoothly. “In any case, there will be time to consider the offer – along with any additional requirements on your part. As I’m certain you are already aware, it would be prudent to make such arrangements well in advance.”

_That’s obvious._ Fushimi shrugged it off, mentally doing the same for his earlier thoughts. “I’ll think about the requirements,” he responded evenly. “As for messages, I don’t have any. Feel free to tell everyone whatever you want if things don’t work out.”

_If you’re even alive._ It was a depressing thought; Fushimi ruthlessly shoved back the restlessness that came with it.

There was no point in dwelling on that.

“I see. Very well, then.” Munakata unexpectedly turned, moving to step back down the stairs. “Please do keep me informed of any resources or assistance that I might prepare for you.”

Somehow, the move caught him off guard; given that his boss had taken the time and energy to come up here, Fushimi had expected him to simply exit at the top of the room. Perplexed, he stared at Munakata’s back, and as he did, his eyes lifted automatically to the area normally hidden by the high collar of the pristine blue uniform – the area that had previously held the intricate sword design.

Previously… because there was nothing there now.

He’d suspected it, but the confirmation still had Fushimi’s breath catching in his throat, eyes widening as his previous theory became reality. “It really is gone, huh?” he murmured out loud, a little stunned despite his own prior certainty.

Yeah, he’d known, but still…

Munakata’s measured steps halted. He turned again, this time with a more somber and less intent expression. “Yes,” he admitted without any hesitation or shame. “Indeed it is.”

Having a soulmate mark vanish from your skin had only one possible explanation. Fushimi took in a breath, not quite sure of how to react. Despite his views on soulmates, even he had to admit what a cruel irony the situation had created. “Seriously… Talk about a shitty system.”

After everything, it was difficult to say that with confidence – even as the words left his mouth, they felt uncertain. Weak.

That fact seemed to not be lost on Munakata. “Is that your impression?” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, still unsmiling. “All things considered, the so-named ‘soulmate system’ is not precisely where I would first think to direct any bitterness.”

That was clear enough – and, if he were being fair, true. The number of complications in this situation made the soulmate connection almost negligible. Besides that, he’d never put any stock in soulmates or their significance before. Still, he kept coming back to them; kept assigning them importance that they shouldn’t have held.

Kept thinking back to the look of horror on Misaki’s face as he burned his half of their matching set from his skin.

The memory didn’t fill him with excitement the way it once had; Fushimi felt his fingers twitch, the urge to reach up and scratch at the mark nearly overwhelming. There was a dull sense of resignation at the center of his memories, a perfect storm of lost chances and missed opportunities. For what, he still couldn’t place. Or maybe it was just his brain not wanting to process it – refusing the logic and cold, hard truth that he didn’t want to face.

The fact of the matter was that Misaki had always been at the back of his thoughts, but his own feelings were changing. No longer were the shining eyes and expectant smile tied to that fleeting warmth and overwhelming bitterness. There was no excitement, no burst of feeling, at the thought of that burning gaze and enraged expression. And something within him twisted when he thought of Misaki’s dull eyes and defeated posture. Seeing Misaki now, regardless of his expression or mood, stirred to life those aggravatingly implacable urges that eluded his understanding again and again. He was trying to avoid acknowledging it, but the fact was, what he thought he was feeling was the one thing he’d told himself over and over that he wouldn’t.

_Regret._

It was that irritating thought that manifested in a scowl as Fushimi turned his gaze aside. “You don’t regret it, then?” he muttered, letting his eyes glance over Awashima waiting with her arms crossed and her posture tense at the bottom of the stairs and the three members of the Silver Clan still gathered at the podium, smiling and laughing as if they had no cares in the world.

_Must be nice…_

“Regret? No.” His boss’s somber tone drew him back to the conversation. When he turned back, the gaze he was being fixed with was surprisingly weary. “Not in the sense that you’ve implied. I have many regrets of a different nature around that time.” Munakata shut his eyes, as though momentarily caught up in reminiscence. “Perhaps there is some error in my way of thinking; perhaps not. But I cannot find it within me to regret a connection I had formed, regardless of how ill-advised or reckless it may have been.” He opened his eyes again, regarding Fushimi with some unreadable emotion. “Regardless of how or why that connection was severed.”

The words seemed to resonate with his feelings. Uncomfortably so, in fact. Fushimi clicked his tongue, letting his fingers hang limp to avoid the tingling desire to dig into his wound again.

Digging into old wounds was a habit that was hard to break, it seemed.

When the silence had stretched out just to the point of awkwardness between them, Munakata finally spoke again. “Forgive me for the abrupt change of subject, Fushimi-kun.” He reached up to adjust his glasses again. “I cannot help but find myself reminded of our previous conversation on the subject. Have you, by chance, had the occasion to expand your knowledge on the subject of flower meanings?”

_What._ Fushimi furrowed his brow, unable to follow the thread of his boss’s thoughts. “Was there some reason I needed to?”

“No. I simply thought that you might find something of interest or value in the topic.” For the first time during the entire encounter, Munakata smiled. It was a small, rueful upturn of his lips. “In particular at this point, the two variations we had observed on that day may hold some relevance.”

If anything, that was even more confusing. Fushimi clicked his tongue again, frowning back. “It doesn’t help when you’re deliberately vague.”

Munakata dipped his head forward in acknowledgement. “Perhaps it was impudence on my part that prompted the mention. Please think nothing of it, Fushimi-kun.” When he raised his eyes again, there was gravity in them – something steady and implacable. “My apologies.”

It didn’t feel like he was referring to the impudence with that. Fushimi was silent, watching without response as his boss turned and made his way back down the stairs, back straight and pace unhurried but inexorable.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, being conscious of Munakata’s dangerously high Weismann levels did not prepare him for actually seeing his Sword of Damocles splinter violently in the air above Mihashira Tower.

The air was crisp enough that Fushimi’s breath created a cloud in front of him; if he hadn’t had his head tilted up, it might have fogged his glasses. As it was, it felt like the enormous blue Sword hanging in the air had frozen at a rapid pace and parts of it consequently shattered, splinters flying off. At the same moment, his heart felt like it had jumped into his throat.

His first irrational, half-panicked thought was that it would break and begin to fall. Beside him, Enomoto gasped audibly, amplifying the initial shock.

In the next moment, with the Sword still hovering and showing no further signs of damage – or descent – fear settled into something more like dismay.

_We’ve lost, haven’t we?_

He’d felt it coming with the arrival of the Grey King, worse when the helicopter had appeared: a slow sick dread at having his worst suspicions confirmed. That logical observation he’d thrown out with nothing more than cynicism after the presentation had proved correct in the worst way, and he couldn’t do more than stand in the cold outside the building and watch.

_Now what?_

It was a rhetorical question; he _knew_ what.

Shutting his eyes against the cold air, Fushimi lowered his head, exhaling sharply and feeling the warmth of it billow around his mouth for just a second. He’d spent a considerable amount of time thinking about this, so it wasn’t that he wasn’t prepared. But the sinking feeling that had struck him when Munakata had given him the order had returned now, tenfold.

_Time to become a traitor again, huh?_ It shouldn’t have been so uncomfortable. He had done it before. There were those in Scepter 4 who wouldn’t find it so hard to believe – most of them, probably. He hadn’t joined to make friends. He didn’t intend to have any significant attachment to that place, or the man who led it, or any of the people he’d worked alongside.

Still, he couldn’t help but think about Munakata’s calm, considering looks… Awashima’s head bent forward as she worked in silent concentration across from him… Akiyama’s small, kind smiles…

Misaki’s face, eyebrows knit together as he met Fushimi’s gaze with uncharacteristic hesitance, clearly uncertain how to act around him any more…

His heart beat faster, that restless ache building to a crescendo as he considered what was coming. It was far too likely that after today, he wouldn’t be seeing most of these people again. And now that it was too late, it occurred to him that maybe he really had wanted to leave messages behind.

_If nothing else, Misaki…_ Emotion rose up fiercely at the back of his throat, nearly choking him. Right.

Maybe there was still time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a reference to the short story, [The Pleiades/The eldest son and his mate](http://misarumi.tumblr.com/post/139289704824/rok-vol5-short-story-translation), set between episodes eight and nine of Return of Kings.
> 
> **Note regarding the first line of this chapter:** The official subtitles for ROK episode eight translated this as "Try to keep up", but I went with something closer to its literal translation instead.

_“Chase after me…”_

Those words – now a memory from several months ago – were playing over in his head as Yata pushed open the door of his tiny apartment, trudging inside in frustrated defeat. His shoulders were already slumped, and as the rest of the world was closed out behind him, he shut his eyes and let out a loud, long sigh.

It was dark inside, so much that he couldn’t see for a moment even when he opened his eyes again, blinking owlishly as they adjusted. Yata didn’t bother to turn on a light just yet, kicking off his shoes and setting his skateboard beside the door. “M’home,” he mumbled – a habit he’d kept up here and there despite living alone.

Right now, it felt like he needed the comfort of that routine.

_What kinda thing was that to say, anyway?_ Yata scowled into the room without any real target. His head – and heart, if he felt like admitting it – hurt trying to figure out what Saruhiko was thinking. When he’d been approached after the failure at Mihashira Tower, it had felt… off. He couldn’t explain it. Saruhiko had riled him, effortless as always, but it hadn’t seemed like his heart was in it. And when he’d walked away, when he’d glanced over his shoulder with that _look_ , it had sent chills down Yata’s spine even without the words that came with it.

“’Chase after me’, huh?” he muttered out loud, and made a soft ‘ch’. What did that _mean?_ What was he supposed to do? He’d already scoured the city, checking everywhere he could think of whenever he had a spare moment. Was that not what he was supposed to do? What else could those words possibly mean?

_Why don’t you ever come out and say what the hell you’re thinking?_

Following that moment, Saruhiko had gone straight to the Blue King and _left_ , so the timing was too obvious. There was a message in those words, but he couldn’t figure it out. Hell, he still didn’t know why Saruhiko had left a message with _him_ of all people. Wasn’t he hated? Hadn’t that been made clear already?

And then if anything, today had only made things more confusing. Why the hell would that asshole betray the Blues, join those Green bastards, and then turn around and warn Yata’s younger brother off of Jungle. What sense did that make?

_What the hell is he playing at?_

It was like a goddamn puzzle game, but with the most vague, frustrating clues ever. He wasn’t even sure if he was supposed to figure them out. Maybe Saruhiko was messing with him. _Wouldn’t be the first fucking time._

Still, he couldn’t forget that look, the impression of a something haunted in Saruhiko’s eyes. He couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been an appeal of some sort, though he didn’t know what for. When Saruhiko had turned to walk away, Yata had reached out for him without thinking, acting entirely on instinct and struck by the sudden fear that if he didn’t follow immediately, something terrible would happen.

And then it _did_ , but for some reason Saruhiko had stopped to help Minoru. Why? _Why?_

Yata stepped into the main part of his apartment, pausing for a moment to frown at the mess on the floor. He’d pulled out the boxes of stuff he’d brought here and stowed in the corner from the time when he and Saruhiko had lived together, desperately hunting for clues. It had been useless, of course, but he still hadn’t bothered to clean up, focused on his increasingly frantic search. At the time he’d been driven by fear that Saruhiko was already dead – had died alone – and he’d burned with the need to prove that possibility wrong.

All the while, there had been one thought he couldn’t seem to shake, always lingering at the back of his head and stirring up an old ache whenever it slunk to the front somehow: _If we were soulmates, I could look at the mark and know he’s still alive._

It was the first time he’d thought of a bond between them in purely practical terms. But that uncertainty had nearly eaten him up inside.

_I should put this shit away._ Yata moved to regard the scattered mementos for a second. At least this would give him something to do other than waiting for the Greens to make their move or wracking his brain over Saruhiko’s inconsistent motivations. He took time to flip on the light, which weakly illuminated the entire room, casting some shadows around the corners, and then folded to his knees in order to get started.

As he was tucking some stuff back into one of the boxes, a tiny speck of light blue caught his eye inside. Yata paused, going in for a closer look without really thinking about it. He’d left a few things in the boxes – stuff that didn’t have anything to do with Saruhiko or the two of them together – but there was a chance he’d overlooked something.

The blue he’d seen was a tiny petal – or rather, half of a petal, hanging out from between the pages of a large, worn book.

_The hell?_ Yata reached in automatically to pull the book loose. It was the collection of children’s stories that his mother had given him, way back when he’d left his family house. Finding it now, after having just met her and turned down her invitation to visit with them for the first time since he’d left, he felt a little guilty for having packed it up without even looking at it once.

Well, it had been a weird gift for a teenaged son leaving the house, even if there was sentimental value.

At the moment, he was more focused on the petal poking out from the top of it. The shape and color were strangely familiar, and as he pulled it up for a closer look, Yata felt recognition strike him like a jolt of electricity.

He could still see Saruhiko’s face clearly, so young back then – they were both so young and stupid, really – with a wary look in his eyes but with the corners of his mouth tense as if he wasn’t sure whether to smile when he handed over his tiny bouquet of flowers.

_Can’t be…_ Yata leaned back to sit cross-legged, maneuvering the book into his lap as he carefully opened it to the page that the petal was leaning out of. There was a tense, churning anticipation building in the pit of his stomach even as he did, and the sight that greeted him met that expectation spectacularly.

The page was lined with the tiny, delicate flowers, green stems stark against the pale blue of the petals. Some were turned upside-down, and some were facing upwards, all of them scattered haphazardly across the large, age-worn page.

Something tight and painful was forming at the back of Yata’s chest, rising slowly towards his throat as he stared down at the part of his mother’s gift he hadn’t even realized was there. _She kept them._ He’d definitely never told her where they came from, so he just had to assume she’d guessed the importance and patiently pressed each one, preserving them for the sake of one single precious memory. Like a snapshot in time.

When he reached out to gently touch one, it felt dry and brittle against his fingertip. Ready to break apart in an instant, reduced to dust with the slightest pressure.

Still, something about the sight of those severed blossoms struck him as unexpectedly beautiful.

_Back then, we didn’t worry about all this shit._ Yata swallowed hard around the lump forming in his throat, feeling his shoulders slump forward as he stared down. Back then, they had been the most important thing in each other’s lives and it had felt like they could do anything. Back then, it seemed like nothing could tear them apart and no one could come between them. Back then…

He’d thought Saruhiko was his soulmate and they’d surely be together for the rest of their lives.

Maybe if he actually had been… If they’d actually confirmed it…

Even as that thought occurred to him, a second memory surfaced – yet another instance where these flowers had been involved. That moment was clear now in his mind: the warm air in the bar contrasted by the chill from outside, and a bouquet dangling carelessly from Mikoto’s hand. The sight of Totsuka’s bright smile overlaid it, bringing a sting of tears to his eyes even as that kind, cheerful voice came back to him.

_"Well, maybe being soulmates wouldn't help so much in this case.”_

At the time, he’d shrugged it off without really thinking about it, but somehow now after everything, the words resonated. _Never found out if that was really the end of the story, either._ Yata shut his eyes for a moment, trying hard to process the two things in his mind and why he felt so strongly that it meant something to him.

Would it really have changed things, if he and Saruhiko were soulmates?

With that question in his mind, somehow he couldn’t help but think of Saruhiko’s face and the deliberate motions he’d made as he’d scorched the Homra mark from his skin in front of Yata’s eyes. The memory wasn’t any less painful now than it had been at the time, but now at least he thought he knew the aim.

That move was pointed at _him_. At them. Everything between them. And he still didn’t understand why Saruhiko had done it, but…

It was Kusanagi’s voice that came to him next: _“In the end, they’re just a set of marks, after all.”_

If the matching Homra marks meant nothing to him – if _they_ meant nothing to him – then soulmate marks wouldn’t have stopped him either. Yata opened his eyes again, staring down at the page full of dried forget-me-nots as realization struck home.

Everything – _every last thing_ – about his relationship with Saruhiko would have been the same. Yata had already believed they were soulmates anyway. Saruhiko didn’t believe that being soulmates meant anything. Having the marks wouldn’t have changed either of their minds, wouldn’t have changed how they treated each other or their parts in the game of Kings and clans and powers.

And if they had done it and not been soulmates… If it turned out his feelings were wrong…

No, that wasn’t right either. Yata grimaced, swallowing again as he worked his way through this. It wasn’t that his feelings were wrong. Hell, he didn’t even think feelings could be wrong – they were just _there_ , whatever you did about them. And when it came to his feelings for Saruhiko…

Those had been there all along, and the belief that they were soulmates had come after.

Yata had believed his feelings were telling him that they were soulmates because he _wanted_ it to be true. Desperately. And that hadn’t changed, even after Saruhiko left him. Even after they’d fought and hurt each other and he’d drowned himself in rage and confusion and bitterness. He hadn’t been willing to let it go, somewhere deep down.

It wouldn’t have changed a damn thing if they weren’t soulmates. He’d still have those feelings. It wasn’t like he would’ve _left_ Saruhiko. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t have cared when Saruhiko left him. He couldn’t even imagine getting to that point. Like Kusanagi had said, it wasn’t about the marks. It was about _his goddamn feelings_ , and always had been.

That was why he wanted to understand Saruhiko. Even now, he still thought of him as an important person. With or without soulmate marks.

Even now, the truth was…

The truth was, about Saruhiko, he was actually… actually, his feelings were…

_Doesn’t matter._ Yata abruptly shut the book, locking away those blossoms and twisting his lips back into a scowl as he felt the ache in his body intensify. He could feel the stunning weight of that revelation, but it sat heavily on his soul, an unhelpful addition to a problem that he still had no answer for. He knew how _he_ felt, but it wouldn’t do him any good. Saruhiko was gone, closed off in Jungle’s base, wherever that was, and he wouldn’t take Yata’s calls or contact him or even give him another tiny, vague, _stupid_ clue what to do next.

Those feelings in his heart… The truth was that he didn’t know if there’d be an answer for them, ever.

_Still, though…_ Yata took in a breath, raising his head to start at the faded wall of his shitty little apartment as he allowed determination to burn through into his core. Still, that wasn’t going to stop him from trying. One way or another, even if it was at the very end, he was going to work to reach Saruhiko. And when he did, he was getting answers, even if he had to shake them loose.

Now that his feelings were clear to him, he would try his best, and leave behind no regrets.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t until he was leaning back heavily against one of Scepter 4’s armored vans with his wound freshly bandaged under his jeans and weariness making him feel boneless and dizzy that everything started to solidify in Fushimi’s mind.

Kamo, who’d treated and bandaged the stab wound on his leg as best he could with the limited medical facilities on hand, had offered to drive him back to headquarters where he could have it dealt with properly, but he’d turned the offer down despite the throbbing pain. Firstly, because they were in the midst of scouring the ruins of Jungle’s base for any remaining clansmen and sparing even one man for a short period of time was going to be inconvenient. With his blue aura back at… well, not quite _full_ strength, but at least a more familiar level, the wound wasn’t more than bothersome, although he’d been warned that it would scar in the end. There was no reason to make the extra trip just for that. And secondly because… he didn’t want to.

As tired and sore as he was, Fushimi hadn’t found it in him to even become frustrated at not understanding his own motivations. Instead, he simply accepted the feeling, affirmed twice to Kamo – who had looked mildly concerned – that he was fine, and stepped gingerly back outside to watch the cleanup.

_It’s a mess as usual._ The wry observation came to him automatically, his old habits falling back into use after only a few hours of being back with Scepter 4. The sky was rapidly darkening, casting shadows across the wreckage and along the faces of his fellow clansmen and the demoralized Jungle members they led back to the containment vehicles.

Across from him, Enomoto was balancing one of the work laptops on one arm while typing furiously with his other hand. Hidaka stood beside him, complicating the matter by leaning into his personal space to see the screen, and to his other side Domyoji leaned back against the side of their vehicle, his head tilted back and arms tucked behind it as if waiting for results of some sort.

_Do they really have time to be slacking off?_

If he’d been allowed, he would have investigated to ensure that they were being efficient with their time, but one of the first things Awashima had told him – in a flat tone, as if heading off mischief from a child – was that he was not to resume acting duty as Scepter 4’s third in command until he was once again in possession of his sword.

Munakata had shot him a partly amused and partly apologetic look. “Forgive me, Fushimi-kun,” he’d added. “I’m afraid there has not been much time to properly prepare for your return. Once this matter” – he tilted his head as if to indicate the disaster around them – “has been settled, I shall, of course, organize a ceremony to reinstate you in a manner befitting the occasion.”

Fushimi had clicked his tongue in response, without much real feeling. “I don’t exactly need a sword to start the paperwork, do I?”

Awashima’s gaze had been mildly exasperated, but Munakata had not batted an eye. “I think it best in this chaotic time that we take care to observe the formalities.” The smile he directed at Fushimi had been fond, but edged with weariness. “Please take the additional time to rest and recover.”

_Recover._ Somehow, he didn’t think it was just the wound on his leg that had been referred to. Fushimi shut his eyes momentarily, mentally recalibrating. He’d had to do so several times since returning, and it helped a little, but he had still not quite found his footing. Months had been spent in Jungle’s base, on constant edge against possible slip-ups and retaliation – despite the faux friendliness from three of the four core members, he had no illusions about how his presence was interpreted. The timeframe was even longer if the weeks he’d used to rank up were included. It had been a long time since he’d been surrounded by familiar faces in blue uniforms and the security of armored vehicles belonging to the organization he’d pledged to serve years ago.

It hadn’t felt quite real. Since coming back, there were a few fragments of clarity in the midst of what seemed like chaos. Giving his brief report to Munakata, who had seemed in less than perfect condition himself but who had nodded and carefully listened to each statement, offering a simple thank you at the end that had somehow filled Fushimi’s chest with warmth. Watching Awashima’s eyes widen when she’d spotted him, a play of uncharacteristically open relief spreading across her expression followed by a fierce, emotional determination as she strode over and reached out without hesitation to pull him into a hug. The sound of familiar voices calling out around him.

“Is that…?”

“It is!”

“Fushimi-san!”

“Fushimi-san is back!”

“Was he really working undercover?”

“I _told_ you!”

“Fushimi-san!”

Even the sudden rush as the Special Operations Squad members swarmed him hadn’t quite registered, despite how sharp it remained in his memory. Hidaka had stepped in the moment Awashima had released him, his eyes flooded with emotion as he enveloped Fushimi in a fierce bear hug. Domyoji had enthusiastically thumped him on the back in the same moment, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs, and Akiyama patted him on the shoulder, offering his usual kind smile. The others had been full of questions, Enomoto bright-eyed as he asked if Fushimi had learned anything about Jungle’s infrastructure and Fuse just as eagerly demanding to know how he’d worked his way to the inside so quickly. It had been overwhelming – not to mention perplexing – to be the source of that much attention all at once, so Fushimi had stood there in agitated silence until Awashima broke things up by announcing that any questions and other discussion would have to wait until his injuries had been treated.

The mention of his wound had worked its magic, and he’d been bustled off to a makeshift medical station in one of the vehicles before he’d had a chance to properly take everything in and adjust. The rest of the debriefing and the entire process of bringing him up to speed had taken place in the back of a van as he was patched up.

One thing that stood out from that moment had been glancing back and catching the eye of his boss, who had offered him a small, knowing smile as he followed behind.

_What was that about, anyway?_

Fushimi still hadn’t shaken the uncertainty within him. The enthusiastic welcome felt like some part of a dream, despite the fact that he _knew_ this was reality. Some part of him was still down in that cold base, expecting to wake up to another endless round of pointless freedom and an unstructured existence. He fought back a little shiver, unsure what to make of the warm rush of relief that flooded him as he reminded himself that it wouldn’t be the case.

He was alive, and he’d been welcomed back to his clan with open arms.

Even without the ‘welcome’ and the ‘open arms’ parts causing additional confusion, he was still adjusting to the other part. _His clan._

It didn’t feel unpleasant to think that way.

“Here you are, Fushimi-kun.” Munakata’s calm, even voice cut into his thoughts. When he looked up, his boss was offering him another of those oddly gentle smiles, his hands clasped behind his back. “I had thought that you might choose not to return to headquarters just yet.” He tilted his head. “Prudence compels me to remind you that rest may be a wise course of action, given your condition.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, again without any real annoyance. “I could say the same to you.”

“I suppose you could, at that.” Munakata’s smile gained a slight rueful edge, a small hum of amusement accompanying the change in expression. “Quite the pathetic pair, are we not? Awashima-kun is likely to scold the both of us.”

That statement was enough to make him raise an eyebrow, gaze shifting meaningfully to the red mark on his superior’s cheek. It was already starting to form into what would be a very noticeable bruise. “I think she’s already scolded you plenty.”

Munakata actually winced at that, then lowered his head and shut his eyes with resignation as he smiled again. “Indeed she has. Unfortunately, there is little I can say in my own defense; as it lies, she had the right of it.” He lifted his gaze again, straightening. “In any case, my purpose in seeking you out was not to question your decisions. Although it is true that I do not have your sword on hand to return to you, I have thus far neglected to mention that I had prepared some small token in the event that there was occasion to welcome you back.”

_‘In the event that there was occasion’, huh?_ That drove home just how close they’d come to there not being any such opportunity. Fushimi shut his eyes briefly, trying not to dwell on that thought. It was over now anyway, and it was useless to focus on could-have-beens.

It had been closer than he was comfortable with. If he hadn’t opened the door… If Misaki hadn’t come…

_Misaki._ Fushimi felt his fingers twitch, but he didn’t have the urge to scratch at his scar the way he had in the past. There was an itch in his brain when he thought about Misaki now, similar to the restlessness he’d come to expect but now almost at the forefront of his thoughts, as though he could reach up and scratch it. Somehow, when he’d offered to explain… When Misaki had turned and smiled at him – not the bright smile of their past but with something like relief, as though an enormous weight he’d been carrying had eased… In that moment, Fushimi had felt the longing he’d struggled with for all those years grow still. It had been… nice. And that was as baffling as everything else; he didn’t know where to start with any of this, although he had a sense that the answer might be close.

_Well, it can wait._ It would have to, anyway.

Munakata continued after a short pause, as though he’d anticipated Fushimi’s lack of response. “Fushimi-kun, I owe you my deepest gratitude for your part in this affair. Were it not for your actions, there is a strong possibility that I would not be present to address you at the end of this.” His gaze was quite serious as he let that heavy statement rest.

Fushimi swallowed against a rush of confusing emotion. He’d known, of course. Awashima had taken up the task of filling him in on the specifics of the situation, her usually brisk voice weighed with the strain of her own feelings. But somehow, hearing the fact spoken directly – that he had managed to save his King directly through his own actions – filled him with a deep satisfaction. The feeling was so similar to what he’d experienced hours before with Misaki that he had a momentary sense of dizzying Deja-vu. It felt as though something that had plagued him relentlessly for as long as he could remember had been soothed.

_His King._ He still wasn’t used to that, either. But the truth of it reverberated in his soul.

As he dealt with that, Munakata reached into the front of his blazer, retrieving a small book with a plain, hard cover. “Though it is a trifle when held against what you have done, I hope that you will accept this small token.” He held out the gift.

Fushimi took it from him, eyeing the cover with a certain amount of wariness. “’The Language of Flowers’,” he read out loud, and looked up to raise an eyebrow. “You’re really pushing this, huh?”

Munakata’s responding smile was beatific. “My thought was that it might serve as a reminder.” He tilted his head again. “I took the liberty of marking the page that held what I considered to be the most relevant content, given the circumstances.”

Fushimi turned the book to verify, and found that one of the pages had been folded at the corner. He carefully slid his finger in against it, propping it open. “I don’t see what’s so relevant about – ” As the sides of the book parted and left him with a full view of the page, his breath caught, that complaint going unfinished.

In between the pages, a small, bell-shaped flower had been pressed, the stem of which was still attached. It was bedraggled and limp, and compared to the crisp color of the pages it seemed to be a faded shell of what could have been a vibrant white. But the bud was intact, though flattened, and it stood out against the text behind it, still lovely despite all it had been through.

_Lily of the valley._ Fushimi’s brain recognized it immediately, supplying a sudden, sharp mental image of Misaki’s young, smiling face in the early Spring sunlight. He stared at the bud for another second or so, caught up in the feelings triggered by that clear memory, and then blinked as a thought occurred to him, gently nudging the flower out of the way to see the contents of the page.

Next to the entry for ‘lily of the valley’, a small portion of the meaning had been underlined: the return of happiness.

“Forgive me, Fushimi-kun,” Munakata’s calm voice broke through his reverie. “It seemed a fitting sentiment.”

_‘Forgive me’, he says…_ If he had not been so distracted, Fushimi would have scoffed at the non-apology. _That was on purpose._ Somehow, his boss had a knack for getting straight to the heart of a matter. This gift was so transparent that he might have rolled his eyes in a less vulnerable moment.

As it was… With the recent revelations of Munakata as his King and Scepter 4 as his clan… With the memory of Awashima’s face when she saw him again… With the weight of all of his co-workers pressing in around him…

It was more than just his safe return – he knew that without probing too deeply at his boss’s intentions. It was… them. All of them. Fushimi raised his head in time to see Akiyama approach the three in front of him, his expression dubious as Hidaka scratched sheepishly at the back of his head. Enomoto’s shoulders were hunched but he still had a rueful smile on his face, and Domyoji was grinning, his hands tucked behind his head. Nearby, he saw Benzai escorting a pair of Jungle clansmen, and Fuse waiting at the van to take over. Goto and Kamo were conversing over a set of papers, their expressions intent, and Awashima stood with her back straight giving orders to a set of troops, who saluted her sharply before turning to trot off.

He had played a role in securing their happiness. He had protected them – taken care of his clan.

Taken care of his… important people. The ones he _cared_ about.

There. That was it. The itch. That was what it was.

Now that he knew, it seemed obvious. So simple. Fushimi recalled standing outside of his family home with the half-baked plan for taking care of a bouquet of flowers, and grimaced. All this time, that restlessness… It was just something as basic and flawed as this. He should’ve known. After all, he was human. He wasn’t special or above anyone. He had urges and wants and emotions just like everyone else, but he’d denied them for so long that somehow he’d convinced himself they didn’t exist.

And somehow, in trying to do that, he’d also managed to twist them into something unpleasant.

At that thought, Fushimi lowered his gaze again, reaching out to tap the bottom curve of the flower with his fingertip idly. _Misaki, too._ It was the same – always had been; he could never _not_ care about Misaki – but he’d failed to see it. Or had stubbornly refused to see it. He’d wanted so badly to be of importance to Misaki that he’d categorized it as an achievement, assigned _points_ to the reactions, and organized the entire business in his head as if it had been rules in a game.

Thinking back to it now, Fushimi couldn’t help but grimace. It hadn’t ever been anything as easily classified as that, but he couldn’t see it. Hadn’t _wanted_ to see it. Hadn’t wanted to admit how much he’d desperately needed to be able to take care of Misaki, because he’d had no clear idea on how that process even worked or how to do it once Homra had stepped in and seemingly taken it over.

It was no excuse, but it was an explanation.

_Maybe that’s the way I should start that conversation._ He’d promised to explain things, after all. There were a lot of things that needed to be said between them, unspoken hurts and half-truths and a painful, intense longing on his part that hadn’t been explored, but there had to be a starting point.

It was too much to think about just then. Fushimi shut his eyes against the influx of emotion. Some tightly held tension had been released within him, but it came at a price. He felt exhausted, mentally drained, despite the warmth of the revelation and the dubious security of mutual feelings.

At least… mutual feelings with his co-workers. With Misaki… well… that was a different situation entirely.

“An overwhelming sentiment,”Munakata observed quietly. When Fushimi glanced sharply at him, he was staring ahead with a small smile on his face, eyes keen. “Is it not?”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, shutting the book in his hands abruptly and turning to face forward. “You don’t have to be so cryptic,” he muttered, without much feeling.

Munakata hummed softly – a light affirmative. “My apologies.”

Silence fell between them, but there was nothing heavy or awkward about it. Somehow, it seemed like nothing else needed to be said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a reference to the Fushimi and Yata after story, [Cola](http://misarumi.tumblr.com/post/148785796669/after-stories-yata-misaki-fushimi-saruhiko), set after Return of Kings. There are also small references made to events in Lost Small World.

“Yata-san…” Kamamoto’s voice broke into the intense staring match Yata had started with his PDA. His friend offered a sympathetic sort of half-smile when he looked up. “You’ve been frowning like that for a while now. Can’t be that hard a call to make, can it?”

Yata scowled back, frustrated, and let out a sharp ‘ch’ before turning his glare off to the side. “Yeah, easy for you to say,” he grumbled, hefting his skateboard under his free arm a bit. He accidentally made eye contact with a woman in a business suit as they passed on the street, and she averted her gaze before he could even get embarrassed, hurrying along as though nervous.

A half-mortified flush spread up his face; Yata cleared his throat, trying to get past the moment. _Don’t accidentally scare people, goddamnit!_ He and Kamamoto probably looked like street punks walking around downtown Shizume in broad daylight, which was almost the truth. Despite the fact that they were working to fix up the mess of strains and stray color-users left behind by the Slate, just their appearance was bound to make ‘normal’ people nervous.

It had been weeks now – _weeks_ , and the most contact he’d had with Saruhiko had been getting into arguments with him over clan territory.

Yata reached up to scratch the back of his head with agitation, ignoring Kamamoto’s searching gaze. Things were… different between them. He should’ve been grateful. After that tense moment in Jungle’s base, it felt like he and Saruhiko had reached something of an understanding, but it was still just a dent made in the huge wall they’d built between them over time. The atmosphere was awkward at best – tense at worst – and every time they spoke, even if they weren’t arguing, it felt like they were both dancing around the heart of the issue. It was as if neither of them knew how to act around each other.

Sometimes, when he let doubt consume him, he wondered if Saruhiko even wanted to try…

_As if that guy wouldn’t say so if that was it._ Yata tried to brush that insecure thought from his head, narrowing his eyes as he thought it through. If Saruhiko didn’t want to try, he wouldn’t have been awkward about it at all. He would’ve made it clear that Yata’s efforts were unwelcome. It wasn’t like he was the type to ever hold back when something was annoying him, after all. That had been one of the things Yata liked about him – one of the things they had in common, actually.

The fact that the nervous energy between them felt entirely mutual actually gave him some hope in a weird way. Saruhiko wouldn’t have been anxious if this wasn’t as important to him as it was to Yata. Right?

“You should just do it, Yata-san,” Kamamoto rumbled at him. When Yata glanced up at him, he offered a grin and a thumbs-up. “That’s your signature style, right? Dive in head-first, and let the details work themselves out?”

That was kinda true. Yata shot him a disgruntled look. “This isn’t a fight, dumbass – it’s totally different!”

Kamamoto shrugged, looking a little bemused at the clarification. “Right, if you say so, but what’s so difficult about making a phone call? Is it some kinda sensitive family business, or…?”

Yata blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard, and then let out a rueful ‘heh’, shoulders slumping as he released his breath in a huff. “Yeah, something like that.”

‘Family’ really wasn’t far off, because the truth was that his mother had been pushing the whole thing about bringing Saruhiko over for dinner much harder lately, and he was starting to run out of excuses. Avoiding her calls only made it worse when she managed to catch him off-guard with one later on too. It wasn’t like he was opposed to going home – it was gonna be awkward, sure, but now that things had settled down, it was doable. But bringing Saruhiko over, when they hadn’t even settled things between the two of them properly yet…

Hell. He wasn’t even sure Saruhiko wouldn’t laugh in his face when he brought it up.

Yata grimaced, trying to shove back that thought. There had been too many years of Saruhiko pushing him away and deliberately stepping on his feelings. Despite knowing that there had to be something more complicated behind it than derision or hatred and that things were gonna be different now, he couldn’t shake the pattern off so easily. Honestly, he still hadn’t quite adjusted to the idea of them being on good terms again. He was happy, sure, but it kinda felt like the whole thing could fall apart if he looked at it funny. It made all of his moves and actions come out clumsy and tentative, and he was starting to get really frustrated with himself for that.

In short, something had to give.

Kamamoto was shaking his head, oblivious to Yata’s inner thoughts. “You won’t get anywhere avoiding family, Yata-san,” he pointed out, with something of a rueful note in his own voice. “You’d better call ‘em and sort it out before it gets bad. Just” – he brought up a hand and clenched it into a fist, with an encouraging grin – “rush in head-on and sort it out. Right?”

Those were his own words; he was sure he’d said that exact thing before. Yata shot his friend a flat look. “Look, this isn’t your business, okay?”

Kamamoto seemed to deflate a little at that. “Yeah, f’you say so.”

Past the irritation, he couldn’t say it wasn’t decent advice. Yata reached up to scratch at the back of his neck again, aggravated, and waited a few more paces as they came out to an alley. “Just… Okay, fine. Wait here.” He stopped by the entrance to fix his friend with a scowl. “Don’t listen in, got it?”

The stupid grin he got back came with an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up as well. “Got it! Good luck, Yata-san!”

_‘Good luck’, he says…_ Yata slouched into the alley and slumped against the wall, setting his skateboard to the side and trying not to think too hard about the last time he’d called Saruhiko in a place like this. He wasn’t sure what Kamamoto would have to say about who he was calling either. Maybe nothing – maybe he’d get a dubious look and a rough sigh.

He’d probably deserve it, too, because this was dumb! There was no reason he should be afraid to call.

Still, even with that, once he’d got the screen up and scrolled down to the right place in his contacts, his finger hovered over the name ‘Fushimi Saruhiko’ indecisively for a second or two.

_Goddamnit…_ Yata scowled, frustrated with himself, and forced his hand to move. _I’ll just… figure it out. Whatever._

The ‘calling’ screen flashed up and he listened to it ring, trying to ignore the anxiety brewing in his stomach. It only went off twice before the ‘click’ of the call connecting sounded, and then… silence.

_What the fuck?_ Yata felt his eyebrows knit together, frowning at his PDA in bafflement. “Saruhiko? You there?”

A brief pause, the sound of some motion, and then Saruhiko’s low drawl came across the line. “You’re breaking your trend. I expected to be yelled at.”

“Hah?” The frown twisted down into a scowl, a little twinge of irritation rising. “I’m not always yelling!”

If he thought back, though… Guiltily, Yata realized he _had_ only been calling lately when he had some beef with the Blues. Things had been hectic. And he wasn’t quite used to normal conversations with Saruhiko. And… maybe if he was being honest, he kinda didn’t want to be the one to initiate this time. Every single time something important happened between them, it was always him pushing. Was it really that bad if he wanted Saruhiko to come to _him_ with that explanation he’d promised?

_Yeah, I’ll probably never get it in that case._

“If you say so,” Saruhiko responded breezily. “So? If you’re not calling to yell, what is it?”

Right. That. Yata grimaced, and then decided ‘fuck it’ and dove right into it. “Mom’s been bugging me about you and me going over for dinner sometime soon.”

There was a marked pause, punctuated by a very audible intake of breath. Yata was just starting to squirm, ready to brush off the whole thing and take it back when Saruhiko responded, tone wary. “How soon is ‘soon’?”

“Eh?” Yata blinked – he hadn’t expected that. “Uh… well… long as I give her a date, I think it’s good? When’s your next day off?”

“Hm.” Saruhiko drew out that hum, clearly thinking it over. “Two days from now. I’ll have to let them know I’m actually taking it, though.”

“You seriously work on your days off?” Somehow, that wasn’t surprising. Yata found himself grinning a bit ruefully. “Damn, you government types don’t like taking breaks, huh?”

“Things are busy right now, if you hadn’t noticed,” Saruhiko responded. His tone was flat, but there didn’t seem to be any irritation or mockery in it. “Anyway, since I’m off all day, just figure out a time with your family and let me know. I can meet you by the bar.”

“You’ll go?” A little wave of surprised pleasure surged up through Yata’s body. Somehow, he’d expected to have to fight for it a bit more… _He really is trying, huh?_ Even that tiny bit of proof had him shutting his eyes for a brief second, savoring the relief and happiness. “Awesome! I’ll call her right away!”

“Fine. Just message me the details.”

“Right.” Now that they’d reached this point, Yata was at a loss. He could feel a million and one other questions at the tip of his tongue – _You wanna hang out on one of those days off, maybe? Should we just message each other random shit like we used to? Are you ever gonna really talk to me? Explain stuff like you said you would?_ – but he wasn’t sure of the timing. Or if he even wanted to put them out there.

_Why’s it always me?_ That self-conscious thought kept those questions in. Yata cleared his throat. “Well, see ya, then.”

“See you,” Saruhiko echoed, in that soft mumble. There was an edge of something that might have been hesitance or maybe even fondness – unless that was wishful thinking – and his tone drew out like it sometimes did.

It made Yata shiver, a little twinge of something that definitely wasn’t remotely platonic starting in his belly and spreading out through his body as the call clicked off. He lowered his hand and leaned heavily against the wall behind him, letting his head fall back with a thud. _What am I doing?_

All the times in the past when he’d thought about his feelings, it hadn’t been this stupid and awkward. But then he’d always had some kind of ‘out’. When they were younger, it was because he’d convinced himself they were soulmates. That made it easy – he didn’t have to be worried or anxious or uncertain because Saruhiko was going to be beside him regardless. And then later on, when he’d sorted that out, it had been more important to find Saruhiko and figure out where they stood.

Well, now they were friends again – sorta – and he still didn’t know where they stood.

_Maybe he’s just not into it._ Yata swallowed hard, lifting his head. Despite the number of times they’d kissed and the remembered intensity in every encounter, the truth was that he didn’t know how to interpret Saruhiko’s actions towards him. It had _felt_ like things were going well – and he’d enjoyed it while it was happening; had thought that Saruhiko enjoyed it just as much – but after everything that had happened, he had trouble trusting his own instincts. He couldn’t separate how desperately he _wanted_ there to be something more-than-friends between them from trying to piece together whether there actually was.

There was also the fact that Saruhiko had always been the one to pull back and put an end to things, even if he’d initiated it. Maybe it was just some twisted form of messing with him, taunting him with his own soulmate obsession and the feelings that brought it up. Saruhiko had done a lot of that, so how was Yata supposed to know one way or another if any of it had been genuine?

When it came down to it, they’d fucking kissed, and even more than kissed, but he had no idea how Saruhiko felt about him.

_So lame._ Yata let out a huff, partly amused and partly frustrated. He didn’t really have it in him to wonder if he and Saruhiko were soulmates, either. That was kind of a secondary concern, if it was even a concern any more. He wasn’t totally sure about that part, but he was sure that he… had feelings for Saruhiko. If there was something to be pursued between them, he wanted to do it.

On top of all of the other problems, there was also the fact that he couldn’t do it as Homra’s Yatagarasu. And he definitely couldn’t do it assuming he was Saruhiko’s soulmate. But he didn’t know how to act as just plain Yata Misaki, either.

_“Don’t forget that’s only a part of who you are as a whole,”_ was what Kusanagi had said. But he hadn’t said how to figure out what the other parts were. Did personalities even section off like that? It was confusing.

“Yata-san!” Kamamoto’s voice called out from the head of the alley. He was peering in curiously. “Did you call yet? How’d it go?”

That was an effective distraction. Yata shot him a glare, waving impatiently. “I told you to _wait_ , stupid!” He raised his other arm, bringing up the PDA again. “I gotta make one more call, so just stay put, will you?”

“Got it!” Kamamoto responded, flashing him another thumbs-up before ducking back out of view.

Yata busied himself with bringing up his mother’s number, successfully pushing the more complicated stuff back as he focused on the immediate matter. But still, that one persistent question nagged at him, tugging at the back of his mind even as he tried to ignore it.

Now what?

 

* * *

 

 

_Now what?_ That was the first thought to surface in Fushimi’s brain as he stared dumbly down at the neatly folded shirt he’d been handed.

“I’ll leave the basket here for you to put your dirty shirts in,” Misaki’s mother said, fixing them both with a stern look. “I’m taking Megumi to the store to pick up dinner ingredients. Wash up and change while I’m gone, and I’ll get the laundry and dinner going when I’m back. Got that?”

“Yes,” Fushimi answered automatically, at the same time as Misaki mumbled, “Yeah, mom.” They exchanged a sheepish look.

Honestly, it was like being thirteen again.

The entire day had felt like that, though – ever since they’d met up to visit Misaki’s family together. From talking about inconsequential things to teaming up automatically so they could save Misaki’s sister from an errant Slate-caused accident and all the way to spraying themselves with soda, despite the fact that it had been an accident on his part and Misaki’s way of making him feel better about it on _his_ part.

And now here they were being scolded right in Misaki’s family’s tiny, neat bathroom, and ordered to wash up by Misaki’s mother.

It was nostalgic. Maybe too nostalgic, honestly…

Fushimi couldn’t help but turn his eyes aside, avoiding Misaki’s direct gaze. It felt like they were trying to fall back on a previous rhythm without any idea of how to interact now as adults. He was having trouble avoiding the pitfall of those easy patterns, despite the fact that he could recognize them. It was awkward, trying to find a space and a level of comfort to start talking – and since he hadn’t, Misaki was pushing forward instead, making assumptions like he had before and taking over the difficult work of what should’ve been communication between them. Hitting the mark too, which had a seductive security to it. But…

_That’s not what I want now, is it?_ He got the impression that it wasn’t what Misaki wanted either; despite the casual ease, a lot of it felt like desperation. Tugging at the frayed ends of what was there once, at a loss on how to piece together something natural.

Out of all that, the only certain thing in Fushimi’s mind was that he _wanted_ there to be something natural between them. Some closeness, a bond, a sense of shared feelings… Trust, maybe. Probably.

It was easier said than done, of course. Given their history, he couldn’t exactly blame Misaki for _not_ trusting him. It stung, but he had no choice but to accept it, seeing as how it was a direct consequence of his own actions. Logically, that meant if there was going to be trust, he was going to have to take the lead, but the idea of trusting someone other than himself, even Misaki – or maybe ‘especially Misaki’, considering how much potential there was for pain – went against every ingrained instinct he possessed. Despite recognizing that he would have to do it if he wanted this to go anywhere, he didn’t have the slightest clue how to lower those particular walls.

He wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to, honestly, despite the longing that still churned about in his body. The idea of putting himself out there like that was… unnerving.

Regardless, it was clear that they couldn’t build anything substantial between them by relying on their previous habits. There wasn’t enough there. And they’d changed. Which they obviously both knew, and it was causing no small amount of awkwardness and strain.

Fushimi clicked his tongue. Emotions were so needlessly complicated…

“All right. I’ll leave you boys to sort out who washes first.” Misaki’s mother offered them a fond smile, turning to step back out of the room. “Minoru will be home from his study session in a half hour or so, so don’t drain the tub water, Misaki!”

“Got it,” Misaki muttered at her retreating back. He turned to face Fushimi with something of an apologetic look. “So, uh, we can both wash, but sharing the tub might be kind of…” At that, he reached up to rub at the back of his neck, embarrassment clear in his expression. “Y’know.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine – there was already a knot in his stomach before he’d even considered the implications of ‘washing together’, much less ‘sharing a tub’. Fushimi turned his back, feeling awkward as he reached down for the hem of his shirt and trying hard not to let it show. “You go ahead.”

“You sure?” There was the sound of rustling behind him – Misaki following his lead, no doubt. Fushimi tried not to think about it as he lifted the shirt over his head.

“I’m not doing you any favors,” he drawled back. “If someone has to go out and make small talk with your family while waiting, I’d rather it wasn’t me.”

Misaki huffed out a laugh – muffled slightly by fabric as he was probably doing the same thing Fushimi had just done. “Yeah, shoulda guessed. Jerk.” His voice came out with a kind of rueful fondness, but before there was time to react to that, Fushimi heard more sharp rustling behind him followed by the soft ‘thwack’ of Misaki’s shirt hitting the basket as the result of a careless toss.

That didn’t help with the earlier thoughts. Fushimi made a low, distracted hum in response to the good-natured insult, eyeing the article of clothing for a moment. He was suddenly and uncomfortably aware that its presence meant that Misaki was standing behind him naked from the waist up. It made him keenly conscious of his own uncovered skin, the fine hairs rising at the back of his neck in response, and he had to fight the urge to click his tongue as he slid his own shirt the rest of the way free, discarding it directly on top of Misaki’s.

_What a pain..._

It was impossible to quell the awkward curiosity stirring within him now. He hadn’t seen Misaki without clothing since they were teenagers trying to conserve water in their cheap apartment. And that had stopped after the first failed attempt to confirm a soulmate bond, thanks to his discomfort and how easy it was to arrange things so that the timing didn’t work out.

In short, it had been years, and things were different. _They_ were different. Physically as well as anything else. He knew it well; there were places he’d touched on Misaki’s body, soft and firm points that he’d mapped out with his fingers without ever having –

_Don’t be stupid._ Fushimi firmly clamped down on that errant thought, making a ruthless attempt to discard it as he started to undo the waistband of his pants. He scowled at the discolored panels on the wall in front of him, frustrated with his lack of control. This wasn’t the time, and it definitely was not the place.

_If there ever will be a time and place for_ that _kind of thing…_ He didn’t even bother to suppress the cynical voice that slid across his mind in response, bending to remove his jeans. It was true, after all. That kind of relationship wasn’t a sure thing, even if he and Misaki both wanted it. Things were… complicated.

That Misaki cared about him, he’d stopped doubting. Misaki had come after him, without understanding and with nothing between them aside from a broken and twisted relationship. It was one of those overwhelming truths that Fushimi still struggled with. Misaki’s attachment had survived in the face of all the hate Fushimi had carefully and meticulously tried to cultivate in him. The depth of those feelings felt unrealistic – an illusion; something he didn’t have any right to.

_As if that matters when it comes to feelings…_ He was starting to realize that in the process of coming to terms with his own. Emotions didn’t follow logic. There was no objective ‘right’ to any of it. Things just _were_ , whether they made sense or not. In the end, he and Misaki were just two people who were drawn together – that was the simple and yet powerful truth of it.

Unfortunately, that was where the simplicity ended. Fushimi forced himself to consider the cold, hard logic at the core of the issue. Feelings may have been uncontrollable, but _actions_ were not – and they typically had consequences.

In short, even if none of the other complicated factors between them existed, he couldn’t avoid the fact that acting on those feelings meant that eventually the problem of soulmate bonding was going to come up.

_There’s no guarantee that we are._ It was the first thought to jump up in response to the subject, his hackles raising in immediate defense. That was the thing that nagged at him as he considered how to approach the topic. If something did happen between them and it turned out they weren’t, would Misaki be okay with it?

If it turned out they _were_ , would _he_ be okay with it?

In the end, it came down to trust again – of Misaki, and of himself. And frankly, he didn’t know that he was capable of either.

Sometimes, though… when he thought about the moment he’d exhausted his resources, facing down the high probability of death, and he’d heard the sound of Misaki’s voice calling out to him…

Maybe…

_It’s useless to think about that now._ It was only going to make things more awkward. Fushimi finished undressing and set the rest of his clothing aside, wrapping one of Misaki’s family’s towels around his waist. It was softer than the ones at the Scepter 4 dorms. This room was tidier too, despite the cramped quarters. The lighting was dim but pleasant and the air was fresh, although it felt stifling at the moment considering everything.

Behind him, he heard Misaki take in a deep breath, and then let it out in a long ‘whoosh’. “Hey. You ready?”

At least he wasn’t the only anxious one. Oddly, that gave Fushimi a little more confidence about the situation. “You say that like we’re getting ready for a fight.”

“Shut up! This is weird, okay?” Misaki’s voice was an odd blend of frustrated and flustered. Without waiting for a response, he blustered on. “All right! Fine! I’m – I’m turning around. Got it?”

_Do you really need to announce it?_ Fushimi felt the smile curling warm at the corners of his mouth, and didn’t bother to stop it even as he turned as well. “Yeah, yeah.”

They somehow managed to face each other at approximately the same moment. Fushimi caught the way Misaki’s eyes widened slightly and felt his own breath halt abruptly in his throat. His skin prickled with mingled surprise and embarrassment, a warm tendril of something that was a little too sharp to be quite pleasant stirring slyly to life within him.

Misaki was stunning. He’d known it, been powerlessly charmed by the play of wiry muscle and the thin, smooth line of waist and hips even when they were covered, but he wasn’t quite prepared for the intensity of his own reaction. It was as if his previous logic had flown entirely out of his head, any cautionary thoughts stilling momentarily as his eyes trailed over the flat plane of Misaki’s stomach and the slender but firm muscles of his calves and arms. An appealing flush seemed to spill from Misaki’s face down along the line of his neck; as Fushimi stared, fascinated, the muscles in his throat moved in a nervous swallow.

There was heat on Fushimi’s face as well, an uncomfortable warmth that he couldn’t help but be conscious of despite everything. He was aware of Misaki’s gaze on him, searing into his skin in return, but it felt like a secondary consideration. _He’s... Misaki is…_

Even as he wracked his brain for a word to finish that thought, it occurred to him that he didn’t really expect to find one that would do both the sight in front of him and the feelings coursing through him any kind of justice.

It was stupid, but probably couldn’t be helped.

Fushimi’s eyes found the proud outline of the Homra insignia on Misaki’s collar barely a second later, and he had only a second to feel the beginnings of apprehension before the swift intake of Misaki’s breath told him they were in sync there as well.

_Right…_

That was it, wasn’t it? Their unfinished business.

“Why – ?” The word came out fast and harsh, thick with emotion and just as quickly halted, as though Misaki had blurted it without thinking but then caught himself. When Fushimi raised his gaze, it was almost exactly as Misaki turned his away, eyebrows bunching together and lips tightening down in a scowl. The play of desperate emotion in his eyes was impossible to miss; he seemed to be making an effort to get himself under control.

_‘Why’, huh?_ Something inside of Fushimi seemed to twist painfully. _That’s the big question, isn’t it?_

He didn’t have a chance to act on the feeling, even if he could have worked out what to do, because the next second Misaki was clearing his throat, drawing in a breath, and then abruptly lifting his head again, a sharp grin on his face. “Why didn’t you get someone to look at that already, dumbass?” He braced a hand on his hip, waving the other vaguely in the direction of Fushimi’s collar and raising an eyebrow. “It looks like shit.”

“Oh, really?” The flippant responses was out before he could process, his brain falling back on the habit of allowing Misaki to direct the flow of conversation even as the blatant disconnect in the atmosphere registered. “I hadn’t noticed.”

_He wanted to ask something else, though, didn’t he?_ Discomfort was already building at the pit of his stomach; the urge to turn aside and brush this off was strong. Fushimi clenched his teeth, fighting with himself – forcing himself to examine the strange dissonance in Misaki’s behavior. _So why…?_

There it was again: ‘why’. Always, always ‘why’.

“Heh.” That came out as something of an amused huff. Misaki shut his eyes with the easy grin still on his face, apparently willing to do the work of brushing the moment off all on his own. “The hell? Aren’t you s’posed to be the smart one here?” He shifted, as if to turn toward the shower head. “Anyway, let’s – ”

“’Smart’?” The sharp repeat was out of his mouth before he’d properly thought about it. Fushimi’s fingers twitched in reflex as something dark churned within him, discomfort and anxiety rising. He forced himself to swallow, lowering his voice to a mumble as Misaki turned again to shoot him a startled look. “Is that what you think?”

“Saruhiko?” Misaki’s voice was confused, but there was a note of underlying wariness. It was there in the way Misaki looked at him, too – a kind of inward cringing, as though he were bracing himself for a blow. “What’s up?”

It stung. More than he would’ve expected. Which was ridiculous, because he had cultivated that look himself. Quite purposefully too, over the years of baiting and taunting and trying to match his laugh with the echo of a ghost he should’ve exorcised long before. What right did he have to be hurt now that Misaki didn’t trust him?

_No right._ Fushimi drew in a sharp breath, forcing himself to continue to meet Misaki’s direct, questioning gaze as he fought the instincts screaming for him to back down and let this pass. The path of least resistance stood before him: say something vague, brush it off as nothing, and go ahead with bathing and having dinner as if nothing were wrong. He could do just that and there’d be no consequences. No risk. No putting himself out there, no laying himself bare and at the mercy of someone else’s judgement. Misaki wouldn’t even question him.

Misaki wouldn’t question him, even though he desperately wanted to.

Nobody would push him to put himself out there.

Nothing would change.

In that instant that he stood there, momentarily paralyzed with indecision, the vivid memory of Jungle’s darkened base rose sharply in his mind. In front of him, Misaki’s face seemed to blur out into the smudged and sweaty version of that time, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a wide, unrestrained smile. In the depth of his gaze, a myriad of emotions played out: surprise, pleasure... relief. There was something cathartic in it – not only from Fushimi having made the halting promise to explain himself, but also from Misaki’s elated reaction. In that moment, there had been no room for doubts.

He wanted that moment back. More than anything. More than his own comfort.

As the vision faded, leaving him faced with Misaki’s furrowed brow and puzzled frown, Fushimi felt a certainty form in his brain, mingled with dread and a nearly overwhelming anxiety. There was only one path he could see that would lead in that direction now.

_Trust has to be earned, after all. Doesn’t it?_

His fingers were trembling. Deliberately, Fushimi reached up with his right hand and ran a fingertip lightly under the line of his burn scar. He could hear the way Misaki’s breath shuddered, eyes following the motion with unconscious intensity. “If I were really so smart,” Fushimi murmured, keeping his voice low to avoid the possibility that it would shake, “I wouldn’t have done this in the first place.”

At that, Misaki’s gaze rose to meet his, lips set in a firm line. He didn’t speak, but the way his jaw visibly clenched said enough. _Go on,_ that look seemed to urge. _Don’t stop now._

“You said the Blue King was my King all along, but that’s not the way I saw it back then.” Now that he was speaking, it was a tiny bit easier to let the confused mess of his previous mentality bubble to the surface. Fushimi lowered his finger, sliding his hand up instead to brace it in front of the scar. “I was stagnating in Homra – it was sweltering. You don’t know – ” He drew in a frustrated breath, cutting that line of thought off ruthlessly. “Anyway, that’s not the point. There were a lot of things happening.”

Someday, maybe, he’d tell Misaki the details. About his family and their peculiar cruelty. About Aya and her involvement with Jungle. About his irrational fear of Mikoto and the sense of inferiority it had brought with it. All of those little points of insecurity and vulnerability that had converged inside of him, causing his resentment and frustration to brew to a boiling point.

Right then, he didn’t think he could manage that much; it would have to be enough to summarize it. “To be honest, I wanted to feel useful. Needed.” He could feel the small, sardonic curve of his lips and didn’t bother to hold it back. “There were a lot of reasons for it, but I wasn’t getting that feeling where I was.”

“How can you say that?” Misaki blurted, abruptly breaking his silence. His face had contorted, an angry red starting to pool under his eyes and his furious gaze wavering with thick emotion. He sucked in a breath, seeming to try and get hold of himself again. “I mean – I get it, yeah, you’re better suited for the Blues, but we needed you!” His mouth trembled; he visibly forced it into a scowl. “ _I_ needed you, goddamnit!” He shook his head furiously. “Just… for right now, forget about Homra, forget clans, forget Kings – forget all of that stuff!” When his face lifted again, his expression was a twisted blend of indignation and anguish. “Why did you destroy it, Saruhiko? Why’d you have to fuck _us_ up?”

There it was again… _One hundred points._ The thought felt hollow alongside the ache that was rising fast at the back of Fushimi’s throat, his heart thundering in his chest as he stared back at Misaki’s furious, pained face. That system had been designed to rate his own satisfaction at his most important person’s efforts, and it was only in this moment that he realized how fucked up it had been – how fucked up _he_ had been. Maybe how fucked up he still was, if he’d started to fall back into that habit. This wasn’t a game. Misaki had aimed right at the heart of it, but it wasn’t for Fushimi’s benefit alone.

It wasn’t just his feelings on the line here. This was both of them. Everything that _was_ ‘them’.

There was no other choice but to be brutally honest from this point on. “Why do you think? I was stupid.” Fushimi shook his head, allowing a helpless little smirk to spread on his lips. It was the only way he could keep from drowning at the moment. “You keep saying you’re the idiot, but do you know what kind of thoughts I had back then? I thought _this mark_ ” – he tapped a finger meaningfully on his covered scar – “was all you’d wanted from me. Any sort of matching marks, right?” Registering the sharp intake of breath and the way Misaki flinched back at the words, he continued, dragging the words forth painfully. “It seemed easier to keep your eyes on me if they were full of hatred. Like that, you’d never forget me.”

“You… fucking – !” Once again, Misaki sharply cut himself off, jerking his head to the side and down as his shoulders bunched up, hands balling into fists at his sides. His face twisted again, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed against the dangerous shake in them. His body trembled noticeably as he fought for control of his emotions; when he swung his gaze back up, it was fiercer than Fushimi had seen it. “What the hell were you thinking, ‘ _all_ I wanted’? D’you have any idea how fucking important you were to me?”

“Was I?” Somehow, that assertion lit a fire in Fushimi’s belly; despite everything, he still found the sharp edges of a grudge that had simmered at the base of his soul. His eyes narrowed, bitterness beginning to run its old, familiar course through him. “Did I even stand out from the crowd, when you had _Mikoto-san_ in your sight?” The hot defensive note in his own voice felt like it carried barbs with it, scraping against his throat as he finally released them. “Was I your first choice to talk to, to laugh with, to spend your _free time_ on? Maybe you forgot that I was sitting there, with all your new friends and your shiny, important _King_ to impress.” Something hot and painful stung at the edges of his eyes and the topside of his mouth; he lowered his voice. “Maybe since you didn’t need a _soulmate bond_ any more, you didn’t need anything from _me_.”

“Fuck you, Saruhiko! Is that what you fucking thought?” Misaki was glowering furiously at him now, his eyes noticeably wet and his teeth bared. “Yeah, maybe I had new friends! Maybe I looked up to Mikoto-san – he saved your goddamn life, asshole! And maybe I found it awkward to be around you sometimes – can you blame me? You think I didn’t notice you pulling away from me? I fucking did! I thought – ” His face contorted again, mouth working for a bare second as he struggled. “I thought it was _me!_ Because of that – that failed… when we tried to be soulmates!” The red on his face was spreading like a rash. “It’s weird, right? Isn’t that why you got all moody? You pushed me away, you didn’t want me – what the hell was I s’posed to do with all those feelings? I thought if I laid off for a while, you’d – ”

“’Laid off’?” Fushimi repeated, cutting into that heated rant abruptly. “Is that what you call leaving me to sit in a corner by myself while you laugh and boast and show off for Mikoto-san? Don’t make me laugh!” He returned the glare with all of the venom and resentment still steeped in the back of his consciousness. “When I told you I was leaving, all you cared about was ‘Homra’s pride’ this, ‘matching marks’ that – if I hadn’t done what I did, you’d have branded me a traitor all on your own!”

That hung in the air between them for what felt like a very long moment.

Misaki looked about ready to punch him in the face, lips curled back from his teeth and shoulders shaking as if his body were incapable of containing the emotion escaping through his eyes. He was clearly fighting himself. After a second or two of almost unbearable silence, he gritted out, “You didn’t even _try_ to explain. Not a goddamn word.” The muscles in his throat moved in what looked like a painful manner as he swallowed. “You didn’t give me a chance. You didn’t give _us_ a chance. You seriously – ” At that, he had to stop and take in a sharp breath before choking out, “You seriously didn’t think _anything_ was worth saving between us?”

The hurt that throbbed in his voice resonated against the stinging at the back of Fushimi’s eyes. He breathed out, releasing his hold at a last on the simmering poison that he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. Now that it was out there, all of his pettiness and insecurity and envy, he felt both renewed and empty, a blend of relief and weariness washing over him. “I didn’t,” he admitted heavily, lowering his voice again and feeling another stab of guilt when Misaki flinched again. “But… I never was good at sorting out my own feelings.”

Misaki’s mouth twisted in a scowl; he let out a bitter-sounding ‘ch’. “No fucking kidding.”

“I’m glad we can agree on my emotional incompetence,” Fushimi responded dryly. The interjection made it easier to breathe; the air felt clearer. “Just to make it clear, I didn’t tell you all of that so we could argue about it or because I believe it justifies anything. That’s just the ugly truth of it.” He drew in another long breath, trying without success to steady his quickened pulse. “And for the record, it was never about whether or not the things between us were _worth_ it. I didn’t believe they _could_ be saved, and the only thing on my mind was keeping you in my life, however I had to do it. It was selfish and twisted.” That came with another sardonic little smile he couldn’t keep in. “It turns out I was the one who didn’t understand anything. Pathetic, huh?”

Misaki grimaced in response. “Not just you.” Part of that glare had softened, but the depth of emotion in his eyes was piercing. “You’re not the only selfish one. There’s a lot of things I didn’t even try to understand.” He let out a long, shaky breath, and then offered a weak grin. “Easier to deal if you just assume everyone thinks and feels like you, huh?”

The unexpected candor caught him off-guard. Fushimi stared for a moment, caught up in a sudden rush of seductive gratification that came with the raw admission. Then he shook his head sharply, rejecting the easy escape hatch. “Well, it’s not like I told you otherwise. And there are a lot of excuses I could make for that” – there hadn’t exactly been an abundance of healthy relationship models in his early life, had there? – “but it’d be a waste of breath. Excuses don’t change facts, do they?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer, so the lack of response in that pause wasn’t surprising. Misaki was giving him something of an uncertain look now, but the set of his shoulders and jaw gave the impression of being poised for action. Maybe he was debating whether to challenge that assertion – to excuse everything on basis of intentions and wipe the slate clean. That was how Misaki thought, at least where it concerned offenses committed against him.

_Not this time._ That deliberate thought was enough for Fushimi to steel himself against what was coming. He wasn’t interested in having his pride or his feelings spared at the expense of letting things go at this point. It was painful, and he felt like he was suffocating, but he couldn’t afford to stop. Not with the stakes this high.

“I can’t even say I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured. The truth behind those words was sobering now that he could process the implications. “I did. I _wanted_ to. I wanted your attention, however I could get it. There’s nothing redeemable at all in it.” Getting that harsh reality aired brought back the sting at the back of his throat and eyes. When he spoke again, it came out in a miserable mumble. “I’m sorry.”

Misaki sucked in a breath, looking momentarily stunned. He opened his mouth, clearly looking to interject, and Fushimi cut him off again, determined to force the rest of it out before any response could be made. “You know… I used to think you could only be either at zero or a hundred, but in reality, it was me. I was the one who could only accept either all or nothing from you, and if it was less than all, I’d make it nothing.” With the throbbing of an ache in his throat, even that low mumble came out sounding wretched, but he kept going. “For what it’s worth, I could never erase your importance in my life no matter what I tried.” He shut his eyes against the persistent sting. “I should have tried to understand sooner. For that, on top of everything else… I’m sorry.”

There was a lengthy pause as that settled in the air between them.

It was broken by Misaki sucking in a breath, shaky and ragged, and the sound of it had Fushimi’s eyes opening. “You _asshole_ ,” Misaki choked out, and that seemed to be enough to release the flood on his end. His eyes overflowed, angry tears streaming down his face as his mouth tightened into a frown against the violent trembling of his lips. It took him several fierce, determined breaths before he could gather himself enough to continue. “What the hell were you thinking, keeping all this bullshit to yourself, huh?” His tone was defensively pugnacious. “I dunno what the fuck that means – ‘zero’ or ‘a hundred’ or whatever – but you’re not the only one being ‘all or nothing’! You can’t hog all the blame to yourself!” He reached up to swipe furiously at his cheeks, scowling as if his own tears had pissed him off. “If we’re talking selfish, how ‘bout the way I thought? You had to be _Homra_ , and my soulmate, because I fucking _wanted_ you to be, so there was no room for you to be anything else.” He grimaced again. “I kept telling myself if we were soulmates, it’d fix everything, but really, I just wanted you to be what I expected. Even when I was trying to understand, I never stopped and thought about what _you_ wanted to be.” At that, his fists tightened at his sides, jaw tightening and eyes narrowing as if to focus the intensity of his gaze. “Yeah, okay, you fucked up, but so did I! We’re both idiots in the end.”

With that last assertion, the energy seemed to drain out of him at once, shoulders slumping and fists going slack at his sides, but he managed to look up and fix Fushimi with a small, weary smile all the same. “So I’m sorry too. And I’m sick of this, goddamnit! I want – ” At that he hesitated, a hint of apprehension his gaze, before stubbornness settled over his expression again. “I want _you_. Not you as part of Homra or you as my soulmate or any of that garbage I told myself. Just you, Fushimi Saruhiko, the person I couldn’t let go of no matter what.”

His eyes weren’t sparkling, his grin wasn’t bright, and there was no unabashed admiration in his tone, but it felt like Fushimi’s heart gave a squeeze in his chest, his breath stolen. The Misaki in front of him wouldn’t have fit on so neat a scale as ‘zero or a hundred’. Not with the uncertainty and the wariness and the myriad of cracks and imperfections spelled out in the dull gleam in his eyes, the desperate edge to his smile, the worried crease on his forehead. This wasn’t his memory of Misaki in the past, who’d pulled him along with bright smiles and unwavering enthusiasm, introducing him to affection that he hadn’t recognized at the time. This was Misaki as a whole: unquestioningly flawed and with a painful past behind him, shattered in ways that Fushimi didn’t understand yet – maybe never would – and still willing to stand and dust himself off to face the world with a brash grin and hope in his heart.

That imperfect reality set Fushimi’s soul on fire. The depth of longing – of _want_ – within him was more than he’d thought himself capable of.

He was still struggling to come to terms with that when Misaki ducked his head, reaching up with an unsteady hand to rub almost defensively at the back of his head. “Ah… my bad.” The corners of his mouth quirked, gaze skittering off to the side nervously. “I got carried away. It’s just… I mean, it’s true, that’s how I feel… but…” The red on his face didn’t seem to be entirely from the earlier emotional outburst; it was spreading all the way to his ears. Misaki made a soft, frustrated sound and jerked his head up again, eyes brimming with stubborn embarrassment. “It’s not like I’m expecting a response or anything! You don’t have to – to let me down easy or – I mean…” He swore under his breath, scowl deepening, but his gaze was intent. “It – it’s fine if you don’t want me, all right? I get it.”

_He thinks that?_ Fushimi stared back, torn between bafflement and frustration. It hadn’t occurred to him that there was any ambiguity when it came to his attraction. “What are you talking about?” he muttered, falling back to a defensive tone on instinct. “ _I_ don’t want _you_? You’re the one who was only interested in soulmates this whole time.”

“Hah?” Misaki stared at him incredulously. “The fuck? Every time that – _that_ sort of stuff happens, you pull back and mess with me! Why wouldn’t I think you don’t want me? You’re confusing as hell!” He let out a low, frustrated growl. “Goddamnit! Anyway, I don’t give a shit if you’re my soulmate or not! I said I want _you_ , remember?” His jaw set stubbornly, gaze turning into a glare. “And if you’re not my soulmate, then – then fuck soulmates! Who cares about that bullshit anyway?”

_‘Who cares’…_ Those words set off something of a ‘ping’ at the back of his chest. “Stop me if I’m wrong, but I think ‘fuck soulmates’ is kind of the point,” he drawled, instantly falling back on an easy response to cover the moment. Unfortunately, it was impossible to keep his voice from shaking.

_He doesn’t care?_

Misaki’s shot him a disgruntled look, the color on his face intensifying. “Shut up – you know what I meant!”

He did – it was starting to sink in, and now that he had the space to process it, the sincerity of that assertion felt like the last piece of a puzzle he’d been working at for ages. Not just about Misaki’s feelings, but also his own. Everything about the soulmate system that he’d allowed himself to grow bitter over – that he’d speculated about in terms of the people around him. The pair of black and white dice above that hateful smirk. The intricate sword that Munakata refused to regret even after it had vanished from his skin. The marks that Awashima and Kusanagi could’ve had that they’d never felt the need to try for. The kitten face on the inside of Akiyama’s arm that he could smile fondly at just for the reminder of the connection it represented.

_“It wasn’t like it would change things between us,”_ the echo of Akiyama’s voice reminded him, and he couldn’t help but shut his eyes, the helpless edge of a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

_Right. Either way, it doesn’t change things, does it?_

Maybe it was a strange thought to be comforted by, but it didn’t matter. Fushimi let out a small huff of breath and met Misaki’s gaze squarely. “I don’t care either.” That sting was back behind his eyes – the direct result of the emotions welling up within him. “I want you. If that means a cheesy picture on my forehead, then fine, I’ll take it.” He paused to swallow back the lump rising at the back of his throat, and his voice came out low and suspiciously thick when he continued. “There’s nothing else I’ve ever wanted as much as you.”

Misaki’s eyes wobbled dangerously, mouth twitching for a moment as he struggled, and then he seemed to gather himself all at once. The intensity in those eyes triggered a sudden and instinctive response within Fushimi, and when Misaki surged up, reaching to grab hold of the back of his neck and pull him in, he was already moving to match that action, taking hold of Misaki’s shoulder and all but falling down into him. They crashed together in the middle, lips connecting with urgency, and it was as if the world around them shattered into insignificant pieces.

The warm, desperate pressure of Misaki’s mouth… the uneven rhythm of their breath fanning out frantically between their faces as they adjusted… the scent of sweat and cola and that unique _something_ that he associated with this person who was so important to him… Nothing else could have possibly mattered more in that moment. The intoxicating feel of their lips working together, mutual desire passing between their bodies as their mouths opened hot and eager to each other, felt like the culmination of a lifetime of longing.

It was several long seconds before reality seemed to reinstate itself, the desperate roar of confirmed feelings settling into a more manageable rushing of satisfaction and physical sensation.

Misaki’s tongue was slick and active against his, shoulder tense beneath his hand. Fushimi was suddenly aware of the warm skin against his fingers – of Misaki’s near naked body so close to his own that he could almost _feel_ what it would be like to press them together. His fingers tingled, and he had the errant thought that he could reach out and put his free hand on Misaki’s hip, could feel more of his skin and the firm muscle beneath…

The pleasant ache that notion stirred in his body was overwhelming. Fushimi made a soft, unconscious noise against Misaki’s mouth, torn between the natural inclination to pull back and stop this before it got out of hand and the powerful urge to keep going and see where it led.

He’d never really been good at resisting – not with this kind of temptation, anyway. But…

Misaki made the choice for him before he could spend too much thought on it, turning his head to break the kiss as he braced both hands on Fushimi’s shoulders to push him back. “Sorry,” he muttered, before Fushimi could do more than blink against the dizzying disconnect as they separated. When their eyes met, he was flushed with desire but his gaze was serious. “I can’t… I mean, fuck, this is my parents’ house.” He grimaced again. “Plus, I think… I dunno… I need time to… uh…”

Now that the immediacy was over and his head was clearing, Fushimi couldn’t help but feel a tiny stream of relief trickling through. “Yeah,” he murmured, sparing Misaki from any further stuttering. The moment was too raw – too fragile. Even if they had been in a better location, with his emotions on edge and the understanding between them so fresh, he didn’t think he would’ve been in a good headspace for it.

Unfortunately, his body seemed to not have gotten the message, but that was only a minor nuisance. Fushimi reached up to readjust his glasses, which had gotten jostled during the kiss, and tried not to think about it. “I agree.”

The tension seemed to leave Misaki’s shoulders at that; he grinned back, eyes softening with relief as he stared back at Fushimi’s face. “Right? Anyway, I was thinking maybe… we should start over. Or something. Not like forgetting the past or anything, but just…” He reached out with his right hand to take hold of Fushimi’s left, carefully sliding his fingers into the spaces between Fushimi’s. His gaze flitted back up from their joined hands, and he offered a half-smile. “Something new. Y’know?”

That tiny gesture was enough to stir a frenzy in his chest. “Yeah. Probably.” _Building things from scratch again, huh?_ It didn’t scare him as much as he might’ve expected. Fushimi squeezed his fingers just a bit, taking in Misaki’s hopeful face. An idea had just occurred to him – if he wanted to start off in good faith, it was probably the best way to make his intentions clear. _I’ll need a clean slate, after all._ He cleared his throat and added, “Fine by me. Yata.”

If he was going to earn that trust back, he’d do it thoroughly and without cutting corners.

For an instant, Yata’s eyes widened. He blinked once, and then his face split into a wide grin.

“Yeah!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This chapter contains a brief description of an abusive relationship. Please tread carefully!

The rest of the house felt unreasonably quiet when Yata slunk out of the bathroom. Not that it was ever quiet there – the sound of some kids’ program on the TV and the shuffling of movement in the kitchen were like nostalgic background noise. But considering everything that had just happened, he was kinda feeling self-conscious.

Somehow, despite it being irrational, he expected everyone to be able to tell what happened just by looking at him.

That thought caused a tingling rush of mingled pleasure and embarrassment and something that felt like release. The entire conversation with Saruhiko – with _Fushimi_ , he corrected himself; they were starting fresh, after all – had felt like it lifted something crushingly huge from his shoulders. He couldn’t even really sort out just how he felt right then. Even just the little act of making small talk – of exchanging glances here and there as they washed – made him feel like his body had started to tremble. It was kinda like when they’d first met, but with the enormous wealth of their shared history behind it. Somehow it didn’t seem right to just describe the sensation with something as simple as ‘excited’.

He was fucking _happy_. So happy he could’ve cried. It was overwhelming, but he welcomed it.

Despite all of the painful things that Fushimi had said, and the knowledge of just how much he himself had missed back then, it was an incredible feeling to finally have everything out in the open between them. Yata hadn’t even realized he was still carrying some of that shit with him, but he was relieved to have it aired. He felt oddly light now, dazed and maybe sorta confused despite the pleasure.

Where did they go from here? What should his next step be? He still didn’t really know.

That was mostly why he’d gotten dressed and left the room while Fushimi was still in the bath. He needed some space to process. And from the look they’d exchanged, he got the sense that the feeling was mutual.

Sharing an understanding again… That was another one of those strange but amazing things. Yata felt the grin building on his face as he stepped out toward the kitchen area, letting his feet carry him on their own carelessly. They weren’t totally in sync – that’d never be a thing again, and he was okay with it – but they didn’t have that feeling of disconnect any more.

It was… awesome. Seriously.

His mother was in the kitchen, humming lightly as she chopped vegetables, with her cooking tools arranged neatly in front of her and meat spread out already in the saucepan with the heat still turned off. The arrangement was so familiar that he had another wave of nostalgia, momentarily distracted from his earlier thoughts, and blinked as the realization hit him that this was the exact same kind of setup he used when he got ready to cook.

_Guess it's normal._ She was the one who'd taught him, after all. Still, he hadn't thought about that in a long time, so it seemed weird now.

"Done already?" She didn't even slow her hand, much less turn, but he could hear the smile in her voice. "You could've taken your time. Minoru's not home yet, and your father won't be back for a while."

"Yeah, well." He aimed a sheepish grin at her back, reaching up without thinking to rub the back of his neck. "Thought I'd give Saru – Fushimi more time in the tub. He's kind of a workaholic; he could probably use the extra relaxation, y'know?"

At that, she did pause, knife stilling momentarily. It was only for a second or so, and then she abruptly started up again. "Hm, all right." Her tone was oddly speculative. "Did you grab the basket with your dirty shirts?"

"Ah..." Right, that. "I forgot."

"Honestly, Misaki." The reprimand in her tone was mild and laced with humor. "Well, go get it, and you can meet me in the laundry room."

"R-right, yeah." Feeling properly chastised, he turned to head back. "Be right there!"

Retrieving the basket didn't take too long, but she still beat him to the tiny laundry room, and was setting up the rack when he came in.

"We'll still get a few hours of daylight, I think," she mused as he set the basket down on the washing machine, stepping back for a second to inspect her handiwork and giving a little nod of satisfaction before turning to offer him a smile. "I'm not sure if they'll be dry by the time you leave, but..."

"It's okay." He shrugged. "If we gotta leave 'em, I can bring dad's shirts back and pick up our stuff later."

Now that he was here, it didn't really feel like such a big deal to come back once in a while.

She shot him an approving look. "Thank you, Misaki." A fond little smile spread on her lips. "It's comforting to see that you managed to grow into a reliable adult." The curve of her mouth took on a teasing edge. "With how little you call home, I'd wondered, you know."

He choked a little at that, sputtering. "H-hey, hang on a – "

"Ah, but then, I know my son." She patted his shoulder lightly. "I didn't have any real doubts. It's just that a mother can't help but worry, you know?"

Yata squirmed a little, feeling that tendril of guilt worming its way into his thoughts. "Sorry. It's just that I'm sorta – "

"Busy, right? It's fine." There was a tiny hint of something wistful in her gaze. "One day I'd like to hear more about your life. If you feel like sharing it, I mean."

He blinked at her, a little surprised. Truthfully, he hadn't explained much to his family the few times they'd been in contact. It was kinda hard to admit 'hey so I joined a gang, but they're really cool' and even harder to come up with something like 'oh and we all have powers and there's these underground clan wars going on'. Even if he'd wanted to, he wasn't sure they would've bought any of it.

Still... she hadn't asked many questions. And now that she'd made that small admission, it struck him that she'd probably held off because she sensed his reluctance to go into detail in the first place.

_Mom's always one step ahead..._ Yata shrugged awkwardly. "Eh, well... It's sorta complicated."

"I guess it must be." She gave his shoulder one more pat, and reached over to take the basket, turning her attention to the machine. "Don't worry too much about it. Take your time, and when you feel up to it, just tell me the parts you feel like can. All right?"

There it was again - she saw through him. _Damn, she's sharp..._ Seriously, this was just like when he'd tried to sneak out of the house to move in with Fushimi.

That brought up a recent memory. "Oh right.” Yata cleared his throat, feeling a little awkward about it as he watched her measure the detergent with casual ease. “I wanted to thank you for... those flowers. Y'know, in the book you gave me?" He scratched at the back of his head, offering a sheepish grin. "I kinda just opened it a few months ago, but it actually helped me out with some stuff. So, yeah, thanks."

“Flowers? Oh.” After a moment of confusion, his mother tilted her head with a responding smile. “You seemed so happy when you brought those home, I thought it’d be worthwhile to save them.” A hint of something rueful slipped into her expression as she bent to load their dirty shirts and jackets into the machine. “Now that you’re an adult, I feel like you should know I assumed you got them from a girl you liked.”

He blinked, taken off-guard. “Eh? A…” The words sunk in; he gaped, incredulous. “Huh? A _girl_?”

“Honestly, it never crossed my mind that it might be Saruhiko-kun instead.” Shutting the washer door and straightening, she he reached out to squeeze his shoulder again. “It seemed so obvious after you said so. You two really were close.” A funny sort of look crossed her face, the smile shrinking to something more lopsided as she tilted her head.  “Sorry to ask out of nowhere, but… you and he… are you…?”

With the conversation from earlier still on his mind, Yata caught her meaning without much trouble. “Soulmates?” Without waiting for confirmation, he offered a rough grin. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. And no. Well” – at that, he shrugged a bit awkwardly – “actually, more like I dunno yet.”

She let out a slow breath. “I see.” One eyebrow arched. “‘Yet’, hm?”

_Goddamnit._ Yata felt heat rising fast on his cheeks. “I – well – that is – ” He eventually gave up trying to fumble through an excuse and settled for a muttered, “It’s complicated, okay?”

“Ah, another ‘complicated’ thing.” His mother smiled with fond tolerance, letting her hand fall from his shoulder. “Well, we all have secrets.” At that, she pressed her lips together, studying him with uncharacteristic hesitance. “I know I haven’t ever mentioned it, but the truth is, I have a soulmate mark myself.”

“Eh?” Yata blinked at her, surprised by the sudden and unexpected confession. True, he hadn’t known for sure, but… “A-ah, well, I sorta guessed that maybe… y’know…”

“It’s under my right armpit,” she continued patiently, and then exhaled slowly, offering a small half-smile. “Your father has one, too – on his left hip.”

That took a little while to sink in, but the obvious implication – soulmate marks that _didn’t match_ – struck him like a sucker punch. Yata gaped at her, incredulous. “Wait – wait, they don’t – ?”

“They don’t match,” she supplied, voice calm and even. Turning to face him fully, she crossed her arms casually over her chest, leaning her hip against the active machine. “Your birth father was my soulmate.” As if that wasn’t enough of a shock on its own, she added, “Your step-father has an ex-wife as well.”

He hadn’t heard much about his birth father – next to nothing, actually. Yata preferred it that way. The handful of knowledge he _did_ have didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in that half of his lineage. His mother had been granted full custody of him and a restraining order on top of that, which he hadn’t understood until he was a bit older. She didn’t talk about his birth father much, and the simple knowledge that he was a ‘bad guy’ had stifled any curiosity Yata might’ve felt.

He hadn’t minded, because… he was his mother’s son. Not his father’s. A good guy, not a bad guy.

It was something he’d almost forgotten, it had been so long ago. Back then, he’d been so desperate…

Yata shook his head, trying to clear that confusing series of thoughts from it. _Never mind that._ “But… if you were soulmates…?”

“Why did I decide to leave?” she filled in, when he left that hanging. Her smile turned a bit wistful. Without warning, she reached over to cup his cheek. “Because of you.”

The gesture had his skin prickling up; it had been years since he’d felt his mother’s touch. Yata blinked, startled and a little overwhelmed with a mixture of embarrassment and nostalgia. “Me?”

She nodded. “He would sometimes… well. Nothing that seemed serious, at first. He was impatient. Maybe a bit harsh. It wasn’t personal – that’s what I told myself.” That came with a sharp inhale, her eyes taking on a pained look. “One time he shoved me – I hit a door frame – and I had a bruise on my face. I remember sitting on the couch, trying not to cry and thinking of how I could cover it up, and you tried to sneak out of your room before your nap was up. You were only just two.” The pain seemed to fade out into a kind of fond remembrance. “Such a handful, even then. You looked up and saw me, and did that little laugh of yours and ran over – you were already running, even though you fell a lot. And when I stood to pick you up, I had this thought…” She pressed her lips together, eyes a little too bright as she smiled. “I thought, what if he does this to my baby? What if one day instead of laughing, my little boy is sitting here and trying not to cry, trying to think of what he did wrong?” Her thumb stroked his cheek lightly. “I couldn’t stand to think that, so… in the end, I left.”

He wasn’t sure how to react to that story. Yata stared back dumbly for a moment, his mind reeling as it sunk in. True, he’d always known that his birth father was no good, but it seemed to mean so much more now. The revelation felt like it shocked him to the core. _Even though they were soulmates…_

It was just like Mikoto and his soulmate – the match that ‘couldn’t have worked’. It really wasn’t that simple, was it? This shit happened all the time, and he _knew_ , he’d heard about it – but it didn’t feel real when it was other people whose matches ended badly. This was right in his face though, and he couldn’t ignore or deny it any more. Not with his mother standing here telling him every painful detail. There were a lot of people – good people; people he knew – who went ahead and did what they had to in order to be happy.

In the end, he and Fushimi weren’t the only ones who wanted to be together no matter what ‘fate’ or whatever had to say about it.

_“And if you’re not my soulmate, then – then fuck soulmates!”_

_“If that means a cheesy picture on my forehead, then fine, I’ll take it.”_

Yata shut his eyes, feeling the helpless edge of a smile forming on his face even as his shoulders slumped a little. He let out a soft, rueful ‘heh’, and then opened them again. “So that’s what happened…” He made an effort to straighten. “Sorry. Guess me talking about soulmates and all didn’t help much, huh?”

She shook her head. “I came to terms with it a while back. And you were so young… I didn’t want to spoil your excitement.” Her eyes were intent on his face, as if searching for something; there was a brief pause before she continued. “I wanted to tell you when you left, but part of me thought maybe it’d be better if you didn’t know. There wasn’t much time to decide, but…” That came with a helpless little shrug. “I’ve wondered since then if that was the right choice. It’s the hardest part of being a mother. ‘Should I intervene or let him be?’ ‘Am I doing this for my sake or his?’ I ask myself those questions a lot.”

It was kinda unnerving to have his mother now talking to him as if he were an adult on equal footing with her. _What am I s’posed to say to that?_ Not once had he really thought about her being a normal human with flaws like everyone else – but that reality was hard to avoid now, with all those facts out there. Yata cleared his throat, feeling awkward about it, and managed a weak, “O-oh.”

His mother gave a soft, amused huff. “I guess I should stop embarrassing you, huh?” She patted his cheek softly before pulling her hand back. “Still, it seems like you’ve become a good man all on your own. Maybe I didn’t need to worry so much.” Her accompanying smile was bright. “I’m proud of you, Misaki.”

_A good man…_ He’d been so sure he knew what that meant, but somehow after today it felt like a shakier foundation than he’d thought. His definition kept changing, anyway. What the hell really made you a ‘good’ man? And did he really have what it took? What was it about him that made her think that?

Somehow, at the back of his head, he could hear the clear memory of Kusanagi’s voice: _“If you haven’t yet, you should start thinking about what kind of man you want to be.”_

Yeah, fine, but what the hell kind of man was he _now_? Now that he thought about it directly, he wasn’t sure. Not Homra’s Yatagarasu. Not Saruhiko’s soulmate. Not his mother’s son. Or – well – maybe all of those things, but not _just_ them.

It was kinda too much to try and sort out right then. Yata pushed that stuff aside and reached up to scratch at the back of his head, still feeling a little bit of a pleasant buzz from the praise despite his embarrassment. “Heh… thanks!”

 “You don’t need to thank me.” Her smile widened even further, lines forming at the corners of her eyes and open fondness in her gaze. “Though I wouldn’t object if you came back to see me once in a while. I can’t help but worry, you know!”

Weirdly enough, he thought he kinda did know. Yata swallowed, just starting to process now that she’d admitted to leaving her first husband – her _soulmate_ – for his sake. If he thought back to what he remembered about those years before her new husband came into the picture, she’d always seemed content. It hadn’t felt like they’d needed anyone else to him, so when she’d brought in someone new, he’d felt… not good enough. As if he couldn’t make her happy on his own. And it had seemed at the time like he’d been left behind for the new family she was going to make. But hearing the whole story now, he thought he felt the force of her love bearing down on him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

He hadn’t been the _only_ person to make his mom happy, yeah, but he’d given her the strength to make herself happy. And even if she hadn’t needed him like she had when it was just the two of them, she’d definitely _wanted_ him.

Some small, persistent sore point that he’d long since gotten used to and forgotten about felt like it eased a little within him. “Yeah.” Yata swallowed around the ache rising at the back of his throat in response, and felt the same wide smile spreading on his own face, a perfect mirror for his mother’s. Feeling fully confident and enthusiastic about it for the first time, he responded, “Yeah, I will.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner was not as awkward as Fushimi had anticipated. If nothing else, he’d expected a certain amount of uncomfortable small talk, but the familiar, chatty nature of Yata family dinners came back to him as they set in. It brought on a set of strangely conflicting feelings. When he sat down at the table, the sharp nostalgia gave him the sense that it had barely been any time at all since he’d been an awkward teenager, unsure of how to act in the face of their overwhelming _closeness_. But at the same time, it felt like it had been a lifetime since the last dinner he’d had there.

_Well, something like that, I guess._ Fushimi had to resist the urge to click his tongue, the aftereffects of his conversation with Yata still lingering in his mind. Mingled bafflement, uncertainty, and a strong sense of _release_ overlaid his thoughts, making him vaguely light-headed. It wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling – after all of it, he felt strangely refreshed – but to be honest, he was getting a little tired of going through these life-changing events.

Right then, he thought he’d take a week of nothing but fixing the mistakes on his co-workers’ reports over another emotional upheaval. Enough was enough.

Yata’s family home was worn and warm, unchanged by the passage of time that had noticeably altered its inhabitants. It was a little on the stuffy side and there was a cramped feeling with the small amount of space and the large number of people crammed into it. Or… not really ‘large’, especially when compared to the amount of staff at Scepter 4. But with the level of energy and lack of breathing room, it felt like a lot more.

_I guess that’s to be expected, huh?_

The conversation was… busy. If Minoru wasn’t firing out a series of questions, switching direction almost at random between himself and Yata, Megumi was chiming in with starry-eyed comments on the answers. Occasionally, they’d get into arguments over who got to speak, which Yata’s mother would break up sternly with an order to eat quietly. In those brief periods of respite, she and her husband would fill the sullen resulting silence with warm chatter about jobs and daily life happenings.

It was… not exactly unpleasant, even if the loud voices of the kids left him with a bit of a headache by the end.

Still, the highlight of the evening was being able to surreptitiously watch Yata’s face when he was engaged in conversation. As usual, his emotions came through in his expression without any kind of filter: embarrassed, annoyed, proud, cheerful, and even the occasional sad moment. It was entrancing, particularly with the knowledge of their earlier conversation sitting not far from the forefront of Fushimi’s thoughts. The rush of affection that would surge through him at the slightest motion or change in expression was still a touch bewildering, but he couldn’t say he minded it. Having the weight of that shared understanding behind it made the overpowering emotion a lot less intimidating.

Not to say it wasn’t still, but he at least felt capable of facing the implications squarely.

As the only other person there who knew what had happened during the time being asked about – or at least, more about what had happened than everyone else at the table – Fushimi found himself running interference based on Yata’s reactions. If something on Yata’s face registered those sad or unpleasant emotions, he would redirect the conversation to prevent any prodding. It was a surprisingly gratifying, even if it just meant that he could see the discomfort lift from Yata’s shoulders and his expression clear. That he could do _something_ for Yata, even if it was simply sparing his pride in front of his family, gave him immense satisfaction.

The times when Yata caught on, he’d met Fushimi’s gaze long enough to give him a smile, eyes bright and warm, and it had sent his heartbeat into a frenzy. Which was stupid, but… also not unpleasant.

Despite all of that, he was still relieved when it came time to leave. There was only so much he could take all at once, and Yata’s family was as exhausting as they were welcoming.

“That’s it, huh?” Yata was clearly in high spirits as they walked down the street away from the house. In the dim light left by the rapidly dying day, the outline of his face seemed sharper. He was grinning to himself, looking content; when he turned to meet Fushimi’s gaze his eyes were bright. “Thanks for coming with me!”

“It’s not a big deal.” Fushimi shrugged his shoulders just a bit, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with the gratitude. “I don’t really mind.”

“Right, that’s what you said.” Yata accepted that without question, his expression and posture relaxed. He turned to face the street in front of them as they walked side by side, unhurried. “Kinda nice to see everyone again, actually. Minoru and Megumi are getting pretty big…”

“That generally tends to be the case,” Fushimi responded easily, content with the new direction to the conversation. It was a relatively warm night, though he could feel the edges of a chill in the slightly damp places left on his shirt and jacket. It wasn’t terribly uncomfortable, though – and he had to admit, he wanted to draw this out purely for the pleasure of having that familiar presence beside him. They didn’t have to be heading anywhere particular or talking about anything specific. Just the simple reality of being together was enough.

At this point, it was impossible to deny how much he’d missed this kind of thing. It wasn’t exactly the same as it had been, but he was fine with the changes. There was something extra to their interactions now… something new, and awkward, and exciting…

Something he wanted to cherish, if he could figure out exactly how.

“Smartass.” There was a grin in Yata’s voice as he answered. He nudged Fushimi’s arm lightly with his elbow. “Come visit again with me sometime, huh?” The invitation was barely out of his mouth before he was hastily adding, “Ah – I mean – actually, you might be expected more, if we – y’know – ugh…” When Fushimi turned to look at him, he was grimacing, a slow spreading flush visible on his cheeks even in the poor lighting. “Damnit… you know what I mean!”

“Do I?” The tease earned him a glare; Fushimi hummed lightly, and then smiled. “Well… I guess I do.”

Yata’s eyes seemed to glow, illuminated by the growing dark. “Yeah, you’d better.”

The buzz of anticipation and pleasure in his stomach heightened even as they turned to face the road in front, their conversation turning to something inconsequential. It was easy like this, despite the fact that they’d so recently unloaded the burden of their broken relationship back in Yata’s parents’ bathroom. Or maybe _because_ they’d done that. Fushimi felt comfortable, despite the vague discomfort that came with his awareness of the awkward attraction between them. That wasn’t something he was particularly unhappy with, anyway. And the air between them felt clearer – more open. He could breathe properly. There was nothing left to wonder any more either, other than the obvious.

_So where do we go from here?_

It turned out that question hadn’t only been on his mind, because when they came up to the point where they’d have to separate – Scepter 4 headquarters being in the opposite direction of the Homra bar and the apartment he hadn’t seen yet – Yata took in a long breath and let it out, clearly gathering his nerve. He turned as they came to a stop at that crossroad. “So? What’re you gonna do now?”

Fushimi shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turned to meet that expectant gaze. “Nothing much. The usual.” He let out a short sigh. “There’s a lot of work to be done still. I’m going to be busy most of the time.”

“Right, yeah.” Yata reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “I… got some stuff to figure out, I think. I mean, pretty soon there’s gonna be no more clans.” His lips quirked up into something of a rueful smile. “I only just got thinking about it now, but outside of being Homra’s Yatagarasu, I dunno who the hell I even am. Kinda weird, huh?”

Oddly, it wasn’t. “Not really.” If he stepped back and looked at it, this was yet another area where the two of them were the same – and complete opposites at the same time, as improbable as that sounded. They were both trying to define themselves in a larger world, after all… just somehow starting at opposite ends. “Believe it or not, I might know a thing or two about having ‘stuff’ to sort out.”

Yata looked startled for a second, and then his face softened again as he huffed out a short laugh. “Yeah, true! What the hell, huh?” The grin that spread on his face was sharp. “Maybe you could teach me a thing or two by now.”

Fushimi clicked his tongue, without much real irritation behind it. “Don’t count on it.”

He got another huff of a laugh for that. “Right, got it.”

There was a short but mostly comfortable silence that spread between them after that; it was like the moment itself held its breath, in some weird way. A strong feeling of anticipation seemed to hang in that brief pause.

“So…” As usual, Yata was the first to break it; he let his hand slide free of its hold on his neck, stuffing both it and its counterpart into his pockets. “Let’s – let’s keep in touch, huh?” His eyes were bright again. “I’ll definitely call you, so…”

That look was doing some funny things to Fushimi’s stomach. He raised an eyebrow to cover it. “I’ll be ready for more attempts to rupture my eardrums, then.”

That earned him a disgruntled scowl. “Look, that’s different, okay? Anyway, you guys need to keep off our turf! But never mind that now!” The glare that accompanied it was piercing. “You could call me sometimes too, y’know.”

He could – although he wasn’t sure if he wanted to make that promise. Fushimi frowned back, caution urging him to give a noncommittal response. “I don’t exactly have all that much free time, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Abruptly, Yata’s expression turned up in a brash grin. “Sounds like something you’d say when you wanna do a thing but might not in case it makes you look too much like you care.”

The unexpectedly sharp response had his skin prickling up. _Annoying._ Fushimi clicked his tongue, deliberately not answering.

“Heh! Thought so.”

“Shut up.”

Yata made a soft, amused huff, but obligingly let it drop. “Anyway, don’t be a stranger, huh? If you see me around, make sure you stop and say hi or something.” His grin turned a bit crooked. “You’re not gonna say you’re too busy for that, are you?”

Fushimi let his eyes go lidded, offering a slow smile in return. “I guess I can manage that much.”

“Right?” The grin widened out again. As that hung between them, Yata shifted on his feet . “So…”

“It’s late, huh?” Despite the reluctance he felt tugging at the back of his mind, there was still practicality to be considered. He did work the next day, after all. Fushimi half-turned, not quite breaking their shared gaze. There was no real point in dragging this out if they’d said everything they needed to, but some small indulgent part of him wanted to hold onto the moment just a tiny bit longer. “See you, Yata.”

“Y-yeah.” There was a beat of obvious hesitance, and then Yata let out a huff, reaching up to scratch the back of his head as his face split again in a rueful smile. “Fuck, I just can’t get used to that. Y’know what, screw it!” The smile widened out into another bright grin. “Since we got a – a _thing_ between us, I’d say we’re close enough to be using first names, right?”

Fushimi blinked, thrown off of his pace by the sudden declaration. Despite the seemingly flippant manner it had been tossed out, the look in Yata’s eyes was serious. _First names…_ As the reality of that sunk in, he briefly shut his own eyes, unable to quite process the feelings settling in his chest. It was similar to the remembered sensation from the first time they’d done this, but somehow deeper. As if there was a wealth of meaning behind it now that hadn’t been there when they were younger. _Close enough, huh?_ Fushimi let out a small, amused huff to cover the confusing emotions, opening his eyes again. “Speak for yourself, Misaki.”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?” Misaki’s eyebrows furrowed, a puzzled little frown replacing the previously confident expression. “You’re still gonna let me call you ‘Saruhiko’, right?”

“Who knows,” Fushimi responded breezily. There was warmth building within him, pleasant and promising, and he didn’t bother to suppress the smile building on his face. “I’ll think about it.”

Misaki scowled at him. “Asshole.”

“Mm.” Fushimi drew out that hum, savoring the mood between them in that moment – after everything, he felt more content than he would’ve anticipated. “Well, maybe ‘Saruhiko’ is the better alternative.” He met that fiery gaze with his own lidded one. “Since it’s you.”

The pleasant buzz that passed between them in that moment was more than promising enough.

 

* * *

 

 

“A skateboarding competition?” Kusanagi blinked, momentarily taken aback, and then his expression settled into something of a rueful smile. “Didn’t know that kind of thing existed. Sorry, I guess I haven’t paid much attention.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Yata waved a dismissive hand, grinning across the counter as he pulled back the flyer. It was still early in the morning, so the bar was mostly empty, but he hadn’t felt like waiting for the others to show up before bringing up his news. “Same here, anyway – only reason I got this is because my new boss gave it to me.”

“New boss, huh?” Kusanagi raised a good-natured eyebrow at him. “Should I be worried?”

“Ah – ” The guilt he had halfway harbored since taking the job flared up again; Yata stared back helplessly. “No, I mean – I’m still gonna help out here, just – ”

Kusanagi held up both hands to forestall that. “I was kidding, Yata-chan! Seriously, don’t let it worry you.” Lowering his arms, he leaned against the counter. “So? What’s the new job?”

The rush of enthusiasm that came with the mention of it was enough to bury that initial guilt. “It’s at a sports shop – you know that one that I go to, up by the park?” Yata braced his elbows on the counter, leaning forward without thinking. “Well, last time I went to get wheel bearings for my board they had a sign looking for people, so I gave it a shot and the owner hired me.” Once he was going, he ended up blurting the rest eagerly. “He’s actually really cool, saw me skateboarding a couple times and that’s why he brought up the competition and all!”

It was the interest that got him more than anything – the fact that this person he barely knew had been impressed enough by something Yata had worked to get good at all on his own that he brought up a competition. He couldn’t really describe how gratifying it had been. Skateboarding had always been _his_ thing, something he’d picked up without the help of red aura or Saruhiko’s intellect. It was just something he’d wanted to do, something he’d sweated and swore over, trying again and again until he could land the jumps and pull the tricks. Having someone without any stake in it tell him he might be good enough to compete and have a real chance of winning, of going somewhere with it…

Hell, he didn’t know what to think, but it felt good.

“That so?” The look in Kusanagi’s eyes as he straightened was somehow knowing. “Don’t know much about skateboarding personally, but I’ll make a point to come cheer you on either way.” He offered a searching smile. “How’s the job, by the way?”

“Great! They really like me there!” First time he’d felt like he could sorta make friends on the job – that it would be something more than just a place to earn cash until he had to ditch it to deal with Homra business or get laid off in the off season or something. It was a weird feeling, but he didn’t mind being greeted heartily when he walked in the door and asked about his life as if his boss actually cared. “The owner even wants me to teach his kids skateboarding. It’s kinda cool, y’know?”

“Glad to hear it.” That came with a nod. “Sounds like those two things should keep you busy for a while, then.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Yata reached up to rub at the back of his neck, a mixture of pride and excitement brewing within him. That tiny remaining edge of guilt compelled him to add, “I’m still gonna be around, though – I mean, I won’t be _that_ busy.”

“No more or less than the rest of us, you mean.” Kusanagi shook his head. “I meant it when I said not to worry about it, Yata-chan. This place isn’t going anywhere any time soon – it’s fine to just come by to hang out. Most everyone here is balancing work, hobbies, and friends the same way.” He raised an eyebrow before adding, “And maybe a love life too, in some cases.”

There was no indication that he meant anything particular by that, but Yata felt his face growing hot all the same. “R-right.” His fingers curled at the back of his neck, the reminder of that other recent development in his life spinning slowly to life within him and bringing mingled pleasure and embarrassment with it.

He hadn’t exactly talked much with Saruhiko these past couple of weeks, but the times that they had talked had been… different. Not so much what they said – they still fucking argued, sometimes over stupid shit or even just for the hell of it – but the underlying tone of it had changed. He felt a lot more certain than he had before, and he got a sense that it was mutual. It was amazing how much it had helped to find out Saruhiko felt the same about him – how much of a boost it had given him to feel the answering desperation in that kiss and the way that Saruhiko had looked at him…

_“There’s nothing else I’ve ever wanted as much as you.”_

Those words still made him shudder, even now. It was hard to believe it was even real, that someone had really said it to him and meant it. That _Saruhiko_ had said it. The look on his face was still etched into Yata’s brain, and his heart raced when he thought about it even for a second. From the tense line of Saruhiko’s jaw to the way his eyebrows had bunched and even in how his eyes had wavered… The open vulnerability in that expression had left Yata stunned. He would never have guessed that Saruhiko could make a face like that if he hadn’t seen it for himself.

He wouldn’t have expected his own feelings to be answered that strongly. It was… sorta overwhelming, even as he selfishly took pleasure at being the focus of that look. He couldn’t help it.

Then again, Saruhiko always had that effect on him, so he shouldn’t be surprised.

Kusanagi seemed to pinpoint his thoughts accurately, to Yata’s mortification. “How’s Fushimi these days?”

“Eh? Uh. G-good. I guess.” His fingers twitched against the uncomfortably warm skin at the back of his neck. Yata let them slide free, slouching forward in his seat. Unbidden, the remembered sight of Saruhiko’s lazy smile and lidded eyes from when they’d last parted rose in his mind, and he had to swallow, mouth suddenly feeling dry. “Haven’t really seen him much since that one time.”

That was mostly his own fault, though it wasn’t like Saruhiko wasn’t busy all the time, as usual. Yata was starting to get some of that old confidence back – when he brought up that familiar contact, there wasn’t so much nagging doubt that his call might not be welcome. Aside from a few bland comments about being having work to do, Saruhiko seemed content enough to take his calls. And despite his earlier words, there _had_ been one or two calls from his end, too. It was obvious he was trying, and that knowledge felt like it sat warmly in Yata’s heart, forcing a helpless little smile out of him whenever he thought about it.

So yeah, it was on him. He’d kinda been holding back, and he thought Saruhiko was probably following his lead and waiting for a cue. And it wasn’t like he didn’t wanna give that cue – he was gonna do it one of these days, because he wanted to be with Saruhiko. More than anything else right now, he wanted them to be together – wanted to date, wanted to kiss, wanted to touch and go further, to finish up what they’d started back in their shitty shared apartment when they were barely old enough to give it a go. All of those things were never really far from his mind. He _wanted_ them, badly.

But there was all that other stuff too, the things he hadn’t quite sorted out. The thoughts that had started to form at his family house, when his mom had praised him.

_What kind of man do I wanna be?_ He didn’t think he’d find the answer without having a chance to sort it out in his head. And he was doing that – working through it slowly, trying out things that appealed to him here and there and figuring out where Homra’s Yatagarasu ended and the rest of him began. With the new job and the competition and more frequent calls home in between Homra’s business, it really felt like he was starting to piece it together.

If he’d started something with Saruhiko, he didn’t think he could’ve made it this far. Somehow, he got the feeling if he’d given in to that impulse right at the start, he’d have lost himself in the rush.

_Never needed to be soulmates for things to be that strong between us, huh?_ It was kinda scary how deep those feelings ran, but at some point he wanted to give in and get swept up in it. He just had to build himself up first so the current didn’t rip him to pieces in the end.

It was really fucking hard not to be impatient, though…

“Hm.” Kusanagi gave him something of a thoughtful look. “Well, I guess Scepter 4 keeps him busy too.”

“Y-yeah. Right.” Yata laughed a bit nervously. “Th-those Blues don’t know how to take a break, that’s all!”

He got a pair of raised eyebrows for that, but fortunately was spared any further comments by the gentle step that signaled Anna’s descent from the upstairs rooms. “Good morning,” she greeted them, stepping into the room with quiet grace.

“Anna!” Yata stood hastily, seizing on the excuse to drop that subject with more than a little relief. “Morning!”

She smiled at him, that warm little upturn of her lips. “You look happy today, Misaki.”

“A-ah, really?” He reached up again reflexively to scratch at the back of his head, still edgy from the recent conversation. “I guess I did get a new job and all… and, well, y’know, some things happened…”

“Yata’s competing in a skateboarding competition,” Kusanagi cut in easily. When Yata stole a startled glance at him, he was smiling with a certain amusement. “It seems like it’ll be before you start your school semester, Anna, so if you want I’ll drive you to watch it.”

“Thank you, Izumo.” Anna’s smile widened; she glanced over to meet Yata’s gaze again, and when she spoke again, her words were sincere. “I want to see Misaki compete.”

“A… hah… Right?” Feeling more than a little flustered, Yata straightened, drawing himself up as much as possible. Her enthusiasm left him with a giddy sort of pride blooming in his chest. “I’ll make sure to put on an awesome show, then!”

Anna nodded, stepping across the room towards him. “I’m glad,” she added, voice quiet and clear, “you found so many things to be happy about.” As always, it felt like her eyes stared directly into his soul, reading everything and still smiling back quiet acceptance of all his flaws. “You’ll always have a place to belong to here, so don’t worry.”

_A place to belong to._ Even now, those words held a significant meaning for him. Yata felt the familiar warmth building at the core of his being, and smiled back at her without holding back. This was a place he belonged, yeah. But he was getting a bigger picture now – that he was a person who existed separate from this place and all the others who belonged here just the same. And he could have other places he belonged to – his family home sometimes, or even his new workplace. In the rink at a skateboard competition, if he managed to keep at it and do well.

At Saruhiko’s side too, some day in the future.

And outside of belonging to all of those places, he was still himself.

In front of him, Anna’s eyes crinkled with the widening of her smile. “Me too,” she said cryptically, and then turned to climb into a seat at the bar. “Can I have some orange juice?”

“Orange juice it is,” Kusanagi responded easily, picking up a glass. “I’ve got hotcakes in the back too, if you’re ready for breakfast.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure to be of service.” He brandished the glass with a bit of a flourish. “Yata-chan, can you do me a favor and go get them for me? They’re just in the warming tray of the oven.”

He was already moving before the sentence even finished. “Got it!” As he pushed through into the back room, he added over his shoulder, “Be right back!”

There was a mirror on the wall when he entered the kitchen, right beside the door – probably something used to check the presentation and all when serving customers – and Yata's eyes caught on the movement made by his reflection. As the door swung shut behind him, he paused, coming to face his image head-on.

The guy in front of him had angry-looking eyes, a down-turned mouth, and raggedly cut hair poking out from beneath a somewhat lumpy hat. His shoulders were a bit hunched and his gaze was dubious, as if he wasn't quite sure about what to make of what he was looking at.

_Fucking figures._ Yata felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips, and watched his reflection smile ruefully back at him. On a whim, he muttered, "Hey."

It felt stupid – even dumber when he could see the pink spread on his cheeks as they warmed in response to the useless action – but at the same time there was something weirdly satisfying about it. Yata cleared his throat and went on, keeping his voice low. "Yata Misaki, right? Heard you're a pretty cool guy."

The reflection gave him a halfway-embarrassed grin, as if it didn't know what to do with the compliment. Hell, he wasn't really sure himself, but...

_Not Homra's Yatagarasu. Not Saruhiko's soulmate. Not my mom's kid._

Yata Misaki.

The grin became less self-conscious with that thought. Yata reached out and lightly fist bumped the frame, feeling a little less foolish somehow, before moving to head further into the kitchen.

"Can't wait to get to know ya."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a reference to the drama CD, In the Park (text translation [here](http://keikcake.tumblr.com/post/137612300461/sarumi-drama-in-the-park-english-translation) and subtitled audio [here](http://chemical-apples.tumblr.com/post/138006198156/sarumi-drama-cd-in-the-park-english-subs)), set after Return of Kings.
> 
> The rating has gone up with this chapter, which means it contains **explicit sexual content**. There is a SFW version available on Fanfiction.net [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12295183/11/All-That-We-Are), on my website [here](http://www.hiddenlegacy.net/K/all11-sfw.htm), and on tumblr [here](http://brynne-lagaao.tumblr.com/private/156025599657/tumblr_ojyokhiIw71suhl3d), if you'd prefer. The scene also contains anal sex with Fushimi "on top"; if you're not keen on either of those things, the SFW version is non-specific.
> 
> Even if you go elsewhere to read the SFW version, please feel free to leave a comment here!

When Fushimi stepped into the grand hall of the hotel that Munakata had selected, he expected to enter a scene like countless others he'd been forced to endure. His presence had been required – by the Captain, more or less – at any number of formal conferences, political affairs, and even diplomatic parties, and they were all basically the same.

However, his expectations were immediately dashed in this case.

The event in question was a "commemorative event" that had apparently been agreed upon by the leaders of each clan involved – which basically meant that Munakata, Anna, and Weismann had sat down for a chat and decided collectively to waste everyone's time. Given the nature of Scepter 4's operations and the mounting workload left in the wake of the Slate's destruction, it had been put off quite a few times – but now, months after the event in question, they were apparently supposed to celebrate "new beginnings".

_Not so new anymore, are they?_

Either way, the hall had been decorated with varying shades of the three "colors" involved: tablecloths, lighting, and the moving wallpaper were all shades of red, blue, and silver. It created something of an interesting contrast. Fushimi was thankful that no one had decided to paint the ceiling or re-tile the floor, both of which were tolerable shades of off-white and brown. Aside from that, there was a somewhat stiff but mostly comfortable aura in the room, a far cry from the tense and sometimes calculating atmosphere he was used to.

Then again, considering who all had been invited – Scepter 4's Special Operations squad, Homra's inner circle, and the four members of the silver clan – it was probably to be expected. Just glancing around at the elegantly lit room, he could already see a lot of inter-clan mingling and enthusiastic conversations. It was a bit hard to tell everyone apart though, due to the formal dress code and the fact that the participants skewed disproportionately male. There wasn't a lot of variance in suits without getting ridiculous.

That was another difference, actually: rather than being in uniform, Munakata had instructed them all to go ahead and expense the rental of formal suits and ties. "For the sake of unity," he'd explained without batting an eye at some of the dismayed looks being exchanged by his employees.

_Unity..._ It made sense, considering they were the only clan with a uniform, but it was still an odd thing to think about. Fushimi shifted in the fitted jacket, reaching up to adjust his tie as he moved away from the entrance and took in the room’s inhabitants carefully. He'd opted to leave his knife holsters in the hotel room he'd booked – for his own reasons in this case rather than on Munakata's instructions – so other than a single pair on the underside of his shoes, he was unarmed.

It was impossible not to be uncomfortably aware of their absence. There was probably not going to be any need for them, but he'd gotten so used to their presence that _not_ having them was almost like walking around without pants. He felt exposed and vulnerable.

_Well, I can manage for now._ He had a plan for tonight, after all. Since the event had been announced, he'd been toying with the idea, and it had gradually taken shape in his mind. Misaki was going to be there – was probably already here by this point, since Fushimi had come intentionally late – and this was an opportunity that wasn't likely to come up again.

It had been a few weeks since their messy conversation in Misaki's family home, and during that period, they had spoken several times on the phone but met in person only twice. The first time had been… awkward. Misaki had been teaching skateboarding to two young kids in a park – and apparently working at a sporting goods store, in addition to entering skateboarding competitions. The encounter had been somewhat strange; new, in a sense. As if they were continuing in unexplored territory. Just being able to see Misaki and talk with him had caused that odd tingle of excitement in Fushimi’s body – there was an element of physical attraction that amplified things beyond the comfortable feeling of simply chatting over the phone. Besides that, the obvious contentment and enthusiasm in Misaki’s face and posture had the odd effect of both relaxing him and stirring up a pit of anxiety in his stomach.

He’d accepted the reality that he actually did want to see Misaki happy, but even so, it was hard to discard the instinctive insecurity that arose in response. Despite everything, it was still necessary to remind himself that Misaki didn’t have to _need_ him for anything; that it was possible – probable, even – for Misaki to simply _want_ him. He still struggled with himself a little over that.

_Can’t be helped, huh?_

What did actually help was that Misaki was the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and his eyes had told a story that his words and actions couldn’t. Fushimi could see his own tentative desires mirrored back at him whenever their gazes crossed, and the feelings it stirred within him were a mix of gratified, pleased and bewildered. At the time, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Not that he could’ve _done_ anything with it, really. Even if they’d wanted to take things beyond ‘painfully casual’, there wasn’t exactly an opening. Misaki had a pair of kids in tow, and Fushimi was technically still on shift. Those few stolen, public moments were all they’d had.

At the time, it had felt like more than enough.

Before they’d parted ways, Misaki had suggested going out together to a bar – which had led to their second meeting, and ‘more than enough’ had pretty much gone out the window with that.

“So here you are, Fushimi-kun.” The unmistakable, even timbre of Munakata’s voice cut into his thoughts clearly, despite the surrounding buzz of conversation and the overlaying soft tones of background music playing in the hall. The man himself approached from the side, clad in a perfectly fitted suit, with two slim flutes of some carbonated drink in his hands and what looked like a relaxed smile on his face. His eyes, as usual, were calculating. “Given that the others arrived some time ago, I was beginning to grow concerned. Was there some significant matter that delayed you?”

Fushimi clicked his tongue. “Nothing important.” He’d long since suspected that Munakata already knew far too much about what was developing between himself and Misaki, and he wasn’t keen on giving away any further details. Besides that, what he had planned was embarrassing. No one outside of the two of them needed to know. “I’ve got it under control already.”

“Is that so?” The hint of amusement in Munakata’s gaze made it clear he’d been seen through to some degree. “I will defer to your judgement, in that case.”

He made a non-committal sound in response, letting his gaze wonder surreptitiously around the room. A small group of what appeared to be mixed red and blue clansmen stood near the banquet tables, which were piled with appetizers of varying types. They were chatting and laughing with casual ease – a direct result of the collaboration of months ago that had endured despite the more recent disputes over clan territory.

_Those were mostly just Misaki yelling at me, anyway._ It had quieted a lot since their conversation.

Near the larger group, Akiyama and Benzai stood talking with a pair of Homra clansmen – one of whom Fushimi recognized from his time there, and the second a waiflike young man with pale hair who he had seen a few times since. Benzai was unusually animated as he spoke with the first clansman, who appeared to be conversing with him in earnest while the other two observed with somewhat bemused fondness. It was an odd parallel to watch.

_Well, not my concern._ Fushimi let his eyes wander without pausing. Not that there was anything to be concerned about when it came to those two. As usual, they were sickeningly content.

Still, he found the corners of his mouth tugging upward slightly as he moved on.

Munakata hummed lightly, momentarily distracting him from his search. His boss apparently had been following his gaze, and was looking in that direction now, a faint smile on his lips. “Most fortuitous that our clans have achieved some manner of harmony,” he commented, shifting his gaze sideways to meet Fushimi’s. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Again, there was that sense of being seen through. Fushimi let out a short sigh. He was resigned to it by now, but… _He’s still annoying when he gets like this._ “Things are quieter, at least.” Hunting for a distraction, his eyes caught on the two flutes in his boss’s hands again. “Isn’t someone waiting on you?”

“Indeed. Most perceptive of you.” Munakata’s answering smile was unconcerned, as always. “In point of fact, I was engaged in a stimulating conversation with Kusanagi-kun.” He tilted his head obliquely in to the side as if to indicate the location of the man in question. “When the champagne was set out, I had thought that this presented a unique opportunity to reverse expectations and serve a drink to a bartender.” His smile widened. “Once the notion occurred to me, of course it became impossible to let the chance pass.”

_Most people wouldn’t care one way or another about a ‘chance’ like that._ Fushimi glanced in the direction that had been indicated to him. As expected, Kusanagi was standing there in a suit and tie that he appeared to wear with casual ease, watching an excitable Neko chatter happily with Anna, who appeared to be saying very little but listened with a smile on her face all the same. Anna’s dress was her usual style, but someone had apparently cajoled Neko into a more formal blouse and skirt. Not that she was likely to keep it tidy all evening.

_Whatever. Not my problem._

It was kind of surprising not to see Awashima with Kusanagi, though. He would’ve assumed they’d take advantage of the opportunity to chat casually without the underlying possibility that an emergency with one clan or the other would arise.

The thought had barely occurred to him when his eyes caught on the familiar blonde hair not far from where Kusanagi was standing. Awashima had taken the opportunity to stand out in a silver evening gown, so it would’ve been difficult to miss her in the sea of black suits. She was also smiling, leaning forward as she spoke animatedly with –

_Ah._ Fushimi blinked, momentarily startled, and then allowed himself the edge of rueful smile. Somehow it felt like he shouldn’t have been surprised that Munakata would find a way to invite a former Jungle clansman to this event.

It had been a while since he’d last seen Hirasaka Douhan, but having worked with her for several months, he wasn’t about to forget her face. Given that she was also wearing a dark-colored suit, however, she might’ve blended in with the rest of the crowd if not for her conversation partner.

Somehow, now that he saw them together, it seemed natural that they’d hit it off. Fushimi had a momentary flashback to an order of anko-flavored sushi set on a plate at the same table where he’d been eating, and resisted the urge to grimace. _They have that much in common, anyway._

Maybe it was just the direction his thoughts were bound to go that night, but as he watched the casual way one of Awashima’s hands brushed Hirasaka’s wrist and how their bodies angled together… “Wonder if she’d confirm it with this one,” Fushimi mused out loud, keeping his voice low enough that it wasn’t likely to be heard over the music and conversation around them.

It was a vain effort, of course. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

He shut his eyes, allowing himself a small, amused huff. “Never mind.”

Munakata made another of those low hums, but let obligingly let the matter drop. “My, my. It appears that the red clan is succeeding quite admirably in their efforts to ensure that the silver clan feels welcome at this affair.” When Fushimi turned to raise an eyebrow at him for that, he smiled beatifically. “I wonder if it might not be prudent to provide some representation on behalf of Scepter 4 in this case,” he added, and tipped his head meaningfully.

Fushimi turned automatically in that direction, and felt his breath catch sharply in his throat. There, at last, was Misaki, talking with Kamamoto and all three male members of the silver clan. Like every other man at this event, he was dressed in a full black suit, fitted well – probably due to Kusanagi’s assistance – and accentuating his narrow hips and defined shoulders. It wasn’t often that Misaki wore clothing that fit – that _flattered_ – quite so well as this, and the sight was enough to ignite that familiar fire of longing within him again.

At least this time he had a sense it would probably be answered.

Misaki was grinning openly in response to something in the conversation, animated and enthusiastic as always. It set off a little flutter in Fushimi’s stomach. He couldn’t help but think of their last meeting, barely a week ago, and the combination of the memory and the sight in front of him had his breath coming short.

It had started off normal enough: a visit to a so-called “trendy bar” on a recommendation from Kusanagi. They’d talked for a long time about all kinds of small things, without any particular aim or agenda. Fushimi wasn’t a casual drinker by any stretch, but he could handle one or two without getting more than pleasantly buzzed, and Misaki seemed to keep to that same pace without any trouble. The evening was comfortable, the two of them spending time together without intruders or interruptions.

That alone would have been enough for him, if he’d been able to silence those internal urges. Tiny, innocuous things like the way Misaki’s fingers curled around his glass or the motions of his throat as he tipped it back and swallowed would bring up that itch to touch. It was difficult to suppress those thoughts once they were brought to the front of his mind. Fushimi could never quite get the remembered taste of Misaki’s lips and the impression of Misaki’s body under his hands out of his head with any real success.

_Seriously… it’s so annoying sometimes._

At the time he hadn’t been sure if they were at that point or not, so he’d kept those feelings to himself. But every so often he’d catch Misaki’s gaze lingering on him, that same heat and longing that he felt reflected right back at him. Their eyes would meet and his body shivered.

Even now, he still felt that shiver run through him as the memory came back.

At the end of the evening, just before parting ways, Misaki had tugged him back into the shadows of an alleyway and kissed him, slow and lustful and maybe just a bit nervous, and all of that earlier doubt had vanished when they’d pulled back with an obvious mutual reluctance.

“Saruhiko,” Misaki had mumbled huskily as they caught their breath, eyes lidded and face flushed, and it felt like a dam had broken within him.

If they hadn’t been in such an awkward, public place…

_That’s not important._ Fushimi swallowed, making an effort to push those heated thoughts back and regain his focus. The point was that Misaki had made the first move – made his intentions perfectly clear – and tonight he intended to respond.

More than respond, if things went according to plan.

“Regardless, it would certainly be impolite if I were to continue to keep Kusanagi-kun waiting.” Munakata’s even-toned voice cut into those thoughts. He smiled placidly when Fushimi glanced back at him. “Please do enjoy your evening, Fushimi-kun – however you choose to spend it.”

For a brief moment as he turned to walk off, Fushimi narrowed his eyes at his boss’s back. _That’s still really annoying._

Well, it wasn’t like he could do much about it, though – it was part of the path he’d chosen, in the end.

When he turned back, the small group of people around Misaki was starting to break off and move toward the banquet tables. Kamamoto hung back, motioning, but Misaki waved him off carelessly. He stood for a moment as his friend left him behind, glancing around to the sides as if looking for someone.

There wasn’t likely to be another chance as good as this one. Setting aside the underlying reservations and lingering traces of uncertainty, Fushimi stepped forward to meet up with him.

Misaki saw him coming before he quite made it, of course. His eyes brightened, a grin forming again on his face as he turned to move toward Fushimi as well. “Saruhiko! Where the hell have you been all night?”

The expression was disarming – something seemed to flip over in his stomach – but Fushimi resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders defensively, keeping his intentions firm at the front of his mind. “I wasn’t aware that there was a scheduled time for me to be here.”

“Yeah, you know what I mean.” Misaki raised an eyebrow, setting his hands on his hips as they faced each other. Up close, the suit was even more fetching on him – the slim contours of his body accentuated by the straight lines of the black jacket and full-length pants. It almost overshadowed the sharp attraction that was plain in his eyes as their gazes locked. Almost. “Figures you’d show up fashionably late.”

It was automatic for him to tip his head forward, lowering his lids and looking at Misaki through his lashes, but it worked to his advantage – he could see the shift from comfortable to aware in Misaki’s expression. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Fushimi had to brace himself mentally as he focused on keeping his tone smooth and unaffected for the rest. “Speaking of which, that clothing suits you. I noticed your finer points from across the room.”

The combination of the look and the compliment had the affect he’d wanted – Misaki’s cheeks took on a noticeable influx of color. “O-oh, yeah. Thanks.” He reached up to rub at the back of his neck, gaze taking on a tentative, almost hopeful edge. “Wait – what – ‘finer points’?”

It was slightly easier when he was actually faced with that flustered reaction. “Mm.” Fushimi allowed his gaze to drift down along the defined outline of Misaki’s chest and torso, forcing himself to retrace back up at the same pace before responding. “Well, I guess it’s harder to see from your angle.”

The muscles in Misaki’s throat worked noticeably as he swallowed. “R-right, sure.” He cleared his throat, eyes flaring up with determination as he made an obvious effort to draw himself up. “You too. I mean… th-that suit… on you… also looks great.” His eyes flickered down almost as if drawn there, and the flush on his face intensified as he jerked them back up again, undisguised want in that burning gaze. “Not that… I mean, you always look good, though.”

Even though he’d been counting on that response, Fushimi still felt the rush of prickling gratification rising up along his neck at the obvious sincerity in it. He drew in a breath, firmly keeping himself on target. “I agree about the clothing.” The words came out in the low drawl with no trace of his internal anxiety. “I also know of a place where both of our suits would look even better.”

Misaki was giving him an intense look now, eyes burning with mingled desire and curiosity. “Yeah? Where’s that?”

Fushimi allowed the edges of his mouth to curl up in a slow smirk, satisfaction and a faint hint of relief forming within him at the clean success. “I happened to book a room in this hotel,” he murmured, leaning forward and lowering the pitch in his voice as his mouth neared the curved shell of Misaki’s ear, “and it has a floor that would probably suit them.”

It took only a second for the meaning to sink in, Misaki’s breath catching audibly even as Fushimi pulled back. When their gazes met again, the fire in his eyes seemed to have tripled in volume and the mirror to Fushimi’s smirk spread across his face, quick and fierce. “Heh.” His lids lowered just enough to make that expression all the more dangerous. “Prove it.”

It only made the rush of desire in Fushimi’s body increase, but at that point he didn’t exactly mind. “If you say so.”

 

* * *

 

 

The conversation from the ballroom had him worked up enough that Yata barely felt a split second of surprise when Saruhiko pinned him to the door of his hotel room from behind, pressing his body firmly against the line of Yata’s back with a hand braced at his hip. Hot breath teased his neck barely an instant before Saruhiko’s lips were brushing the sensitive skin, sending a warm shiver all the way through him.

_Damn… we’re not even inside yet…_ It was hard to give a fuck about that flimsy protest when his body was screaming at him with urges, though. Yata ground back against Saruhiko, tilting his head to allow for more of that delicious sensation and reaching back to awkwardly pull their lower bodies into closer contact. The hallway was empty anyway, so it couldn’t hurt, right? _Fuck, just for a minute… just…_

He was on the verge of turning around – for better leverage and to try and catch that clever mouth with his own if he could – when Saruhiko shifted against him, and the sound of the door lock clicking open snapped through the mood sharply. That was about all the warning he got before it swung inward, and he nearly lost his balance as they stumbled forward into the room, the momentum carrying them into the wall with a series of thuds while the door slammed shut behind them.

“Ow!” The word was torn out of him more from instinct than pain; Yata found himself with his back against the wall, glaring up at Saruhiko in the dim lighting. “Goddamnit, you fuck – ”

The words cut off seconds before Saruhiko was shutting his eyes and leaning in to insistently cover Yata’s lips with his own, the surprise that came with the sudden action stalling Yata’s voice out in his throat before it could even be muffled. With his body and brain still tied up in the heat of the moment, he was quick to give up on the insult, surging up urgently into the kiss and reaching out to hook his arms around Saruhiko’s slender waist, fingers catching in the thick material of the suit jacket.

_Fuck_ , he looked good in that thing. Tall and slender, pale skin accented by the contrast with his hair and clothing. And then he’d given that smoldering look, the thing he did with his eyes…

A small, unconscious noise escaped Yata’s throat as the kiss grew more frantic between them, the damp glide of Saruhiko’s tongue along the inside of his lips resulting in a hot jolt of pleasure shooting up through his body. He tightened his hold without thinking, thrusting his hips forward blindly to get some friction against the erection that was swelling against the zipper of his fancy dress pants.

Saruhiko obliged him, humming against his lips in response as he wedged a knee between Yata’s legs and rocked forward so that they rubbed against each other. The pleasurable contact had them both gasping into the kiss, mouths opening clumsily to each other as they ground together. Years of tension seemed to unwind within Yata, making his movements jerkier and more desperate as the sensation built rapidly towards release. The combination of Saruhiko’s body under his hands, Saruhiko’s scent filling his nostrils, and the remembered sight of Saruhiko staring at him with open desire was just about driving him crazy.

It felt _good_ , more than he could’ve imagined on his own, but through the haze of want clouding his brain, Yata was increasingly aware that if this continued, it was going to end _fast_. And really fucking embarrassingly too; up against the goddamn wall in less than five minutes without taking a single article of clothing off.

Stronger than his body’s drive for release, he wanted _more_ from this. Much more.

He broke the kiss, managed to mumbled, “Shit,” before Saruhiko chased his lips again, and had to wrench his head to the side, forcing his hips still. “St… ugh… stop, I’m – “ A low moan escaped him as he felt the hard lump of Saruhiko’s erection rub against his own again. “ _Fuck_. If you don’t… I’ll… I’m gonna…”

At once, he felt Saruhiko’s hips still. Slowly, reluctantly, some distance was created between them, and Yata breathed out heavily in mingled relief and disappointment even as he felt the weight of Saruhiko’s head fall onto his shoulder.

“Me too,” was the mumbled response, followed by a long, shaky sigh. “I got carried away.”

_No kidding._ Yata swallowed, feeling a little twinge in his lower body at the admission. “Y-yeah.” He leaned his head back against the wall, breathing hard as he struggled to bring himself down a notch or two. _That was intense._

It was a few seconds before Saruhiko lifted his face again, flushed and with his glasses askew. He reached up to straighten them, eyes seeming to glitter in the dim light. “There’s a lot more,” he murmured, and the corners of his mouth tipped up slightly. His lips were noticeably red and puffy from the earlier assault, and his lashes veiled his gaze again. “Can you handle it, Misaki?”

The combination of that open challenge, the lewd sight in front of him, and the soft, seductive mumble of Saruhiko’s voice stirred a fire to life in Yata’s belly. He grinned back, feeling brash and bold, and abruptly surged up from the wall, rolling them so that he was pinning Saruhiko instead, bracing his hands on the wall beside those slender hips. “Hell yeah! I can take whatever you dish out, _Saru_.”

He was so focused on the way that hint of a smile curled up into a lazy smirk on Saruhiko’s lips that he missed the deft fingers pulling his tie from under his jacket until he felt the tug at his collar urging him in closer. “I’ll be looking forward to watching you prove it,” Saruhiko drawled, low and sultry, his eyes dark with undisguised desire as he leaned in to brush his lips over Yata’s again, darting his tongue out to trace between them teasingly.

That was more temptation than he was prepared to resist, especially in his current state. Yata parted his lips and pressed back aggressively into the open-mouthed kiss, fingers curling against the wall as he fought to keep himself from bringing their bodies into contact and creating the exact same problem all over again. He could feel Saruhiko’s warmth and the little movements as he squirmed, and it was feeding strongly into the ache between his legs. His tie was still being gripped firmly as their mouths worked together, and just that little hint of restriction – of being held in place – was enough of a turn-on to pull another unwilling moan from the back of his throat. His arms and legs trembled with mingled arousal and restraint.

Saruhiko broke the kiss that time, pulling back slowly and then tipping his head and leaning in to mumble directly into Yata’s ear. “You know… we’re both still wearing too much if we want to get on with this any time soon.”

The combination of the warm breath on his ear with that pointed observation pulled a surprised huff of a laugh from him even as the sensation sent a little shiver through his body. _He can go from dangerously sexy to impatient as fuck that quick, huh?_ “Yeah.” His own voice came out suspiciously husky; Yata cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious again. “Right, sure.”

His tie was released, and Yata stepped back, letting the fresh air around them cool his head as he reached up automatically to pull it loose around his neck. He hastily shucked his jacket, dropping it carelessly to the floor before reaching for his belt and trying not to think about how big a deal this was. Getting _naked_. In a _hotel room_. So he could _have sex_ with _Saruhiko_.

Shit. It was a big goddamn deal.

His fingers were trembling as he fumbled with the belt and the fastener for his pants. Yata kept himself focused on the immediate task of undressing to mask his sudden anxiety, feeling more heat rising up his neck and along his jaw.

_Hell. Just… keep it together, will you?_ He’d been waiting years for this – the last thing he wanted to do was get nervous and fuck it up.

As he got his pants down over his hips and let them drop to his ankles, Yata glanced up to check Saruhiko’s progress and felt a prickle run along his skin as he caught those dexterous fingers loosening his own tie, pants already on the floor and jacket discarded. The light dress shirt draped over his thin frame almost artfully, and his boxers were short enough to expose a lengthy portion of his slender thighs. Above all of that, Saruhiko was studying him through a veil of lashes again, unquestionably lustful, and Yata had to swallow hard, throat gone suddenly dry.

_I get to do this… get to… with him…_

It was almost too much to believe.

His fingers were starting to tremble again with the urge to reach out and touch – he wasn’t sure where to start, but it’d probably work itself out, right? – when another little smirk curved on Saruhiko’s lips. “You should probably brace yourself on something,” he drawled.

“Huh?” Yata blinked, trying to shake off the haze of desire long enough to piece together what that meant, and then froze as Saruhiko dropped into a low crouch in front of him, legs spread wide and sitting on his heels. “Wait – what are you – ?”

That question died in his throat as Saruhiko’s fingers caught in the elastic of his underwear, tugging forward so that he was nearly nose-to-nose with Yata’s belly-button. His breath was a warm breeze against the flimsy fabric in front of it, serving almost as a faint caress against the hard lump beneath.

Another small, unconscious sound worked its way free of Yata’s throat; he didn’t trust himself with words in that moment. In its confines, his dick stiffened even further as hot arousal spiked through his body at the intimate position.

_He’s not gonna… actually…_

Saruhiko’s face tilted up, meeting Yata’s gaze; at the same time, his fingers curled, giving a light tug.

_Fuck._ Yata swallowed, managing a short, jerky nod in response to that silent inquiry. Just looking at Saruhiko like this, with his pale cheeks flushed and his eyes full of want, head tilted _up_ at him for once, was oddly thrilling. He didn’t really know what was gonna happen next, because it was hard to predict with this guy and… that was fine. Better than fine. Actually, he liked it – found it unbelievably hot in a situation like this, where whatever happened had a high chance of getting him off in the end. Having all of Saruhiko’s attention, being the focus of whatever he was planning, gave him a heady rush of desire.

Hell, he was game for just about anything if Saruhiko looked at him like _that_ , all smoky-eyed and sultry. It was dangerously intoxicating.

Still, he couldn’t help the little jump his heart gave as his underwear was peeled down carefully and his dick was suddenly out in the open. _Right in his face, holy shit…_ Yata felt an embarrassed flush spreading fast across his face, the mortification of his current situation catching him all at once. He couldn’t help but shift awkwardly on his feet as the fabric joined his pants down around his ankles.

_Right, so… now what?_

There was thankfully very little time to think about that; after undressing him, Saruhiko reached down for something on the ground and came up with a small tube in his hands.

Okay, he was gonna have to ask. “What’re you doing?”

“You’ll see.” He probably should’ve expected that lilting drawl in response, but it was kinda irritating how just the sound of it – combined with the way he could see Saruhiko’s lips curl up at the corners as he twisted the lid free – sent a little spike of pleasure up from his lower body. He could feel his balls tighten and his cock give a tug, which meant it was probably an obvious reaction from that vantage point too and made it about fifty times more embarrassing. Yata scowled, deliberately shifting his gaze to the generic off-white wall in front of him to recover the moment.

_Asshole…_

One of Saruhiko’s hands brushed his knee, fingertips gliding delicately up the outside curve of his thigh in a slow, explorative way. The sensation did a lot to soften Yata’s annoyance. He’d never been touched like that before – even aside from the obvious fact that no one had groped his leg, just the nature of it was totally different. The caution and the care changed the intent in a way he couldn’t explain.

He risked a glance down again, heart hammering in his chest as the wandering hand settled on his hip, and felt a little jolt when their eyes met. Saruhiko’s head was tilted up again, just enough that he could give Yata that lidded gaze and small, lazy smirk – but there was something like hesitance in the way he stilled his movements completely, fingers barely pressing against Yata’s skin. “Good?”

That uncertainty was sorta endearing – enough to quiet his nerves a bit. Yata managed a little rueful grin, feeling his shoulders relax marginally. “Yeah. I’m just… not used to this, s’all.”

“You don’t say.” Saruhiko’s fingers settled a little more firmly on his hip, lips quirking up just a bit more. He continued to meet Yata’s gaze for another beat or two, drawing out the heated mood, and then lowered his gaze. “Well. If it’s too much for you, say so and I’ll stop.”

“Heh! As if it’d be too – ” The last part of that bravado was lost in a startled moan as Saruhiko closed his other hand around Yata’s erection and stroked upward firmly, thumbing the head. His hand was warm and slippery, coated with some slick substance, and Yata had to reach out and catch himself on the wall in front of him as he nearly lost his balance, the sensation shooting a sudden burst of pleasure through his body. “Fuck,” he gasped weakly, and let out a little groan as the motion was repeated, eyes squeezing shut at the influx.

Damn, it felt _good_ – way better than when he did it himself. Just the knowledge that Saruhiko was down there, looking at him, _touching_ him… It was crazy what a difference it made.

Saruhiko gave him another stroke without any attempt at rhythm, his touch marked with that cautious care from before. Yata’s fingers curled against the wall, close to losing it. “Saru,” he managed to grit out, partly as a warning of his tenuous control and partly just because he wanted to feel the name on his tongue in that moment.

“Got it.” The hand gripping him slid down, curving delicately around his balls for a moment and making him shiver with the new pleasurable sensation. And then Saruhiko’s fingers were pressing back, between his legs and the crack of his ass to prod at the base, finding and resting against the puckered hole there.

Yata sucked in a breath, momentarily freezing up. He wasn’t dumb or naïve – he knew how this fucking worked, and it was pretty damn obvious what that touch implied. It wasn’t particularly intrusive, a question rather than a demand, but the stark reality of it shocked him a little. He’d swallowed his pride and asked Fujishima and Eric for advice so he’d know what the fuck he was doing when things got that far between him and Saruhiko, so the idea wasn’t _new_ or anything. And he’d seriously thought about it both ways: him doing it to Saruhiko and Saruhiko doing it to him. Hell, he’d jerked off to it both ways. The idea wasn’t exactly unappealing.

Maybe it was kinda embarrassing, though. And a little nerve-wracking.

And… fuck… Okay. If he was honest, he found it hotter than he wanted to admit.

Saruhiko obviously sensed his hesitation, because he withdrew the finger while Yata was still caught up those thoughts, leaning back a bit and tilting his head up again. “Don’t force yourself,” he mumbled. When Yata glanced down at him, startled, his eyes were watchful, almost wary. His thumb brushed lightly over the jut of Yata’s hip, almost a ‘don’t worry about it’ kind of touch. “We don’t… have to do this, you know,” he mumbled, clearly struggling to find the right thing to say without being too awkward about it. “There are other things.”

_“Don’t do it for my sake,”_ was the obvious unvoiced implication, and Yata felt a part of himself melt at that, a smile tugging at his mouth almost involuntarily in response. Saruhiko’s face was still noticeably flushed, lips still swollen from kissing and parted sensuously, and with the traces of desire still visible in his gaze. With his legs spread widely to either side in that low crouch, it was easy to see the hard bulge through the thin fabric of his underwear. He looked wanton, lustful and disheveled in a way that made Yata’s heart skip a bit, but he was obviously holding back. Making an effort.

Even though it was kinda misplaced, Yata felt warm appreciation building within him. _Damn, I really fell hard for this guy, huh?_ There was no helping it in the end. All the sides of Saruhiko – the standoffish irritability and the dark mystery and the edge of vulnerability he tried to mask and that awkward, endearing consideration – were things he loved, helplessly, with a passion that still sometimes surprised him. And maybe it was selfish, but he wanted everything Saruhiko could give him. Every last thing.

“Heh. Don’t be so full of yourself.” Freeing one hand from the wall, Yata reached down to run his fingers along the line of Saruhiko’s cheek and jaw, cupping it a bit tentatively and feeling a rush of confidence as Saruhiko leaned into the touch. “As if I’m gonna force it – I want this to be good as much as you do, dumbass. And that means for both of us. Yeah, maybe I’m not used to it and stuff, but I fucking want it. I want _you_.” He swallowed then, and when he forced himself to try and voice the rest, his voice came out sounding husky and strange. “You got no idea how much… I… Saruhiko...”

It was possible to see the way Saruhiko’s gaze changed, a portion of that wariness seeming to melt from his expression. “You don’t need to say that much,” he mumbled, and shut his eyes, letting out a slow, shaky breath before opening them again to about half-mast. “Me too.” A small, helpless-looking smile came along with that. “About you, Misaki.”

The hand Yata still had braced on the wall clenched into a fist, the fingers of his other trembling against Saruhiko’s skin with the surge of emotion. He cleared his throat, letting the smile on his face edge up into a sharp grin. “Right, so then get on with it, huh? Let’s do this!”

“I think your bedside manner could use some work,” Saruhiko drawled back, but he obligingly turned his attention back down, sliding his finger slowly back to its original position and teasingly running it along the rim.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not the one who – ” Yata’s retort was cut off in a swift intake of breath as Saruhiko’s finger dipped inside shallowly, the new sensation sharp in his awareness. It felt strange and tense but not terribly uncomfortable. With his dick still hard and the past pleasure fresh in his muscle memory, the intrusion was… kind of erotic.

Without fully thinking about it, he slid his hand back, tucking his fingers into Saruhiko’s hair. It was just as soft as he’d always imagined, he noticed dimly.

Saruhiko must have taken that as encouragement, because he slid the finger in further, wriggling a bit once he’d gone as far as he could. “Does it feel okay?”

Now that he was getting used to it, it wasn’t bad. “Yeah. No big deal.”

“Mm.” The finger withdrew, and seconds later Saruhiko was sliding two in. “How about now?”

_Seriously?_ Yata set his jaw, torn between appreciation and frustration. “You don’t… have to keep asking.”

“Are you sure about that?” There was a bit more of a stretch with two fingers, but it was already slick so still not bad, even as Saruhiko started to scissor them. Just… weird. New.

Thinking about Saruhiko sliding his dick in there gave him a rush of mingled anxiety and arousal that he wasn’t quite ready for. Yata sucked in a breath, fingers tightening a bit around the dark strands in his hand. “Look, I got this, okay? I fucking… I _like_ it. I’ll tell you if something’s not cool, so – ”

Once again, he was cut off, this time with a startled moan escaping his throat as Saruhiko’s fingers curled, brushing a spot that sent a wave of shuddering pleasure through his body. His eyes shut, muscles tensing up as his thoughts blanked out briefly.

_Holy shit…_

When he came down from it a second or so later, opening his eyes and staring hazily down, Saruhiko was looking up at him, lips parted and eyes dark with desire. Yata felt another little tremor run through him. _Damnit, why does he have to look like that?_ “Wh-what?”

Saruhiko blinked, then abruptly lowered his gaze. “Nothing,” he mumbled, and his fingers retreated. After a beat or two of silence, he added slowly, “You look good when you lose it like that,” and pressed forward with three fingers.

There was a sting that came with that, but it felt _different_ with the recent pleasure still sharp in his memory. Yata gulped in a breath and felt a gratifying shiver build in his limbs as his body made its approval known. “D-don’t be… embarrassing.” He let out all the air in his lungs as Saruhiko spread his fingers and wriggled a bit, nearly hitting that spot but not quite. “Shit… that feels good…”

Saruhiko didn’t answer, but his hand tightened on Yata’s hip, fingers pressing in more firmly. He curled them to hit that spot again, triggering another flash of blinding pleasure and a helpless groan.

Yata was starting to feel tingly and sensitive, an ache building in his lower body as the urge to climax built. The compulsion to reach down and stroke himself to release was strong, but he didn’t want to end things that soon. “If you don’t stop I’ll… _ngh_ …” Another of those pleasurable touches robbed him of breath; he panted heavily, fingers twitching against Saruhiko’s skull as he fought to hold on to his tenuous control. _Damn…_

The fingers withdrew slowly; before he could react much beyond a rush of mingled disappointment and relief, Saruhiko let out a shaky sigh, leaning in unexpectedly to press his lips against Yata’s opposite hipbone. The kiss lingered; when he pulled back, his breath brushed the spot as he mumbled, “Misaki. I want you.”

Those words seemed to crackle through him like electricity. Yata drew in an unsteady breath, trying to ground himself. “Yeah,” he managed to respond, voice coming out throaty and affected. “Same.”

Another slow exhale against his skin, and then Saruhiko’s face lifted away from his hip. Without pausing, he lifted both hands and began to undo the bottom buttons of Yata’s dress shirt, shifting the loosened tie off to the side. As he worked his way up, he started to plant a kiss with every button undone as if welcoming each new inch of exposed skin.

Yata lifted his hand from the wall to brace it along with the other in Saruhiko’s hair, carding his fingers through the strands. His breath caught with each small, light point of contact, the fire in his belly growing stronger; by the time the shirt was undone and his tie was being carelessly pulled up and tugged over his head, he was fired up enough to grab hold of Saruhiko’s collar and aggressively pull him in, capturing his lips in a rough, clumsy kiss.

There was a moment of stiff surprise, and then Saruhiko softened against him, practically melting into the contact. Yata ran his tongue along the line of those thin lips and was granted immediate access, which he took full advantage of. The hot, hungry way their mouths moved together only heightened his excitement to a fever pitch.

Still, first things first. _Gotta take care of this._ Yata pulled back reluctantly after a few seconds, loosening his grip on Saruhiko’s shirt and focusing on the buttons instead. His fingers felt tense and shaky, but he was able to pop the first without any problems.

Saruhiko caught on quickly to what he was doing and reached up to pull his own tie off over his head like he’d done with Yata’s earlier. As he was lowering his arms, the loosened collar of his shirt drooped a bit, and Yata’s eyes caught on the corner of a small white gauze pad in a familiar spot.

His skin prickled, not quite unpleasantly – but not really in a good way, either. Yata paused, hesitated for just a second, and then set his jaw and returned to hastily undoing the buttons on Saruhiko’s shirt.

_Guess I’ll ask later._ He didn’t really feel like killing the mood when things were going so well.

The pause hadn’t gone unnoticed, though. “I thought about what you said,” Saruhiko murmured, reaching up to pull the fabric of his shirt aside as Yata finished with the buttons. The burn spot had been bandaged up neatly, not even the puckered edges of it visible. “About taking proper care of it.” His voice was low and had a husky undertone; when their gazes met, he hesitated for just a second. “I thought this might keep me from aggravating it. Among… other things.”

‘Other things’, right. _He didn’t want me to see it, huh?_ It was a little surprising how clearly that insight came to him. Yata swallowed, unsure exactly what kind of emotions were stirring within him as he reached up to tentatively brush a finger over the gauze. “’Bout time,” he responded roughly.

Saruhiko tipped his head in response, looking at Yata through his eyelashes again. “Does it bother you?” There was a serious undertone in the question. “That we might not match ever again, I mean.”

It wasn’t about the burn scar now, Yata was pretty sure. He offered a small, rueful smile in return. “Nah. I told you before, I don’t care about that.”

Light fingers brushed his cheek, seconds before Saruhiko leaned in to rest his forehead against Yata’s. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly before speaking again. “You won’t be disappointed if we’re not?”

_He’s worried about that?_ Somehow, it sent a little surge of affection through him, emotion overlaying his body’s urges. Yata reached up to clasp Saruhiko’s fingers in his own, staring back with full seriousness as those devastating eyes slid open again. “No way in hell,” he answered fervently, feeling the certainty all through his blood and bones. “You’re the one I want, not some stupid marks. Believe me, Saruhiko. I’m in this for good, no matter what happens.”

He could see the shift in Saruhiko’s eyes at that, the tiny change that showed the more vulnerable side he was still getting used to. It made Yata’s heart ache a little. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but feel anxiety growing at the pit of his stomach, that tiny sense of dread he couldn’t quite kick. “And – and you are too, right? I mean, if it turns out we are…”

“Misaki.” The name came out almost like a sigh as Saruhiko leaned in to roughly claim Yata’s lips. The kiss was simple and closed-mouthed, but somehow it felt like all of his passion had been poured into it. There was a desperation that tugged at Yata’s soul. “I don’t care either,” Saruhiko mumbled as they broke apart, barely allowing an inch of space between them. “You’re… too important to me. I can’t…”

He seemed to be struggling for words, so Yata spared him the trouble, surging in with matching urgency to respond to that kiss. It felt like a relief to hear the words – to allow himself to _believe_ them. He hadn’t realized how much that fear still nagged at him, being left behind and discarded. Maybe he wouldn’t ever be totally free of it, but in moments like this he felt like he could really trust that things wouldn’t be like before.

His feelings were answered. That was enough.

Well, maybe not _enough_ , at least not in that moment. As the kiss extended, their mouths moving slower and more hungrily, Yata was increasingly aware of the throbbing tension between his legs. His ass felt slick and weird, but… hell, it was a reminder of how much he did want Saruhiko to fuck him right then. His fingers still rested on the gauze pad; as he flattened his hand out, he could feel the firm plane of Saruhiko’s chest. The skin was warm and smooth under his touch.

It was exciting, finally getting to touch him like this. Yata felt his heart pounding hard in his chest as he slid his hand down experimentally, fingers brushing the line of Saruhiko’s ribs as he thumbed the hard pebble of a nipple.

Saruhiko made a small, throaty noise into the kiss, pressing in harder, and Yata took that as encouragement. He repeated the motion, freeing his other hand to slide it down tentatively along the elastic band at Saruhiko’s hips. When he reached down to palm the hard lump at the front, giving an experimental stroke, Saruhiko’s teeth closed on his lower lip – not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to signal a reaction.

Yata pulled back slightly, mouth spreading in a grin without really thinking. He curled his fingers loosely, feeling Saruhiko’s dick twitch in his hand as its owner’s breath caught. It was a heady feeling, being able to affect someone like this. “Good?”

Saruhiko’s gaze was narrow and heated above his flushed cheeks. “Misaki…”

“Heh. If it’s too much for you, say so,” Yata parroted his earlier words, feeling the grin on his face turn into a wicked smirk as he leaned in to kiss the base of Saruhiko’s neck. The smell of sweat and hair product and something like bitter spice assaulted his nostrils, increasing the intimacy of the touch. He moved his way down, intoxicated, pressing his lips to Saruhiko’s collar, chest, and stomach as he lowered into a crouch, bringing his other hand down to catch both on the waistband of Saruhiko’s underwear. Those long fingers he’d admired for so many years threaded into his hair, and he didn’t even mind the slick feeling of the lubricant on one side. The soft, shaky exhale and the way Saruhiko’s stomach muscles tightened slightly under his hands made him feel powerful and desirable in a way he couldn’t have predicted.

_Guess I can see why he liked doing it to me so much._ “Okay?” Yata tilted his head up, wanting to make sure of the reaction.

Saruhiko’s fingers tightened in his hair, a small edge of a smile on his lips as he gazed down heatedly. “Mm. Yeah.”

That was enough to get him moving again. Yata turned his attention back down, tugging the underwear over and off so that Saruhiko’s erection sprang free. As he lowered the material, he caught sight of the discarded tube from earlier, and reached out impulsively to grab it, feeling bold. The top hadn’t been replaced so it was simple enough to squeeze some of the slick fluid and coat his hand, trying to warm it a bit as he did.

“What are you – ?” The question cut off with an audible intake of breath as Yata closed his hand around the hot length of Saruhiko’s erection, stroking upward firmly and reveling in the way it moved in his grip. It was the same thing that happened when he did it to himself, but this was different – this meant that he was making Saruhiko feel that way, giving him those sensations…

It made his own dick give a little twitch, pleasurable tension building in his lower belly. When he thought about how Saruhiko was gonna put this inside him, they were gonna connect and grind together…

_Shit._ His breath was starting to come faster. Yata gave Saruhiko’s cock another rough tug, spreading the lube generously and feeling a heady rush of urgency from the soft resulting moan. “Saruhiko…”

“ _Misaki_ ,” came the response, low and dangerous-sounding, and before he had time to process how hot that was, Saruhiko’s fingers were sliding free of his hair, reaching down to tug insistently at his arms to bring him back to his feet.

He’d barely made it up before Saruhiko’s lips were on his again, sloppy and desperate, something like a whine escaping him as his hands roughly pulled Yata’s shirt from his shoulders. Yata let it drop, sliding his hands free, and returned the favor hastily even as Saruhiko stepped forward, urging him to move backwards and nearly causing him to trip over his discarded clothing in their haste. The back of his knees hit something soft and firm, and he willingly allowed himself to be pushed down onto the mattress, breaking the kiss and scooting back to create room for Saruhiko to kneel between his legs.

_Hell yes… here we go. Here we fucking go!_ Yata’s heart was starting to pound, his whole body seeming to buzz with anticipation as Saruhiko settled above him, left hand under Yata’s knee to push his leg back as he adjusted his dick with his right. The tip of it prodded firmly at the exposed entrance to Yata’s body, sending another jittery rush of excitement and nervousness through him.

When he looked up, Saruhiko was leaning forward, his eyes glazed behind the smudged lens of his glasses and lips parted, as if he just barely had control of himself. It made Yata’s heart jump. “Misaki,” he mumbled, voice tense. “Is it okay?”

“You’re asking that _now?_ Are you kidding me?” Yata narrowed his eyes, impatience brewing alongside the urgent arousal within him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take the wait. “Yeah, I’m pretty fucking okay! Come _on_ …”

Saruhiko had the nerve to click his tongue in response, though it was clearly half-hearted. “Whatever you say.”

There was no chance to snark back, because he turned his head down, immediately and carefully beginning to press forward past the tight ring of muscle. And Yata had to clench his teeth, because it sure as fuck stung when the head of a fucking dick was jammed up his ass. But it wasn’t terrible – like before, it was more of just a strange feeling. Not bad at all.

Still, he couldn’t help but appreciate Saruhiko’s caution and rigid control that kept him to that slow pace. Yata breathed out through his teeth, forcing himself to relax and feeling his body adjust to accommodate the intrusion. As he was able to focus, he took in Saruhiko’s face – eyes tightly shut, cheeks flushed, lips pressed together with obvious effort – and felt another helpless surge of affection.

_Wonder how good this feels on his side…_ The thought gave him a little twinge of pleasure, which further eased the pain. The slide of Saruhiko’s cock inside his body felt kinda… intimate. Satisfying, in a way. Yata squirmed a little on the bed, suddenly aware of his own erection standing up hard and aching against his belly. He kinda wanted to touch it, maybe not to get off right away, but… well…

He felt good, and wanted to feel even better. That was it.

It was still turning over in his brain when Saruhiko seated himself fully, pausing to slouch over Yata and just breathing deeply for a moment, mouth agape. His eyes cracked open and he squinted down, looking like he was about two seconds from losing it. “Misaki,” he mumbled, an edge of desperation in his tone. “Feels good…”

_Fuck_ , he liked the sound of that. Yata gave in to the urge, using his left hand to reach between his legs and grip his cock. He didn’t stroke it immediately, instead raising his right hand to set it over the one Saruhiko had braced on his thigh. “Yeah,” he agreed, barely aware of the throaty note of own voice. “Yeah, it’s good.” The fingers of both hands tightened slightly, and he tilted his head back with a lazy grin spreading on his lips, regarding Saruhiko through lidded eyes as a little stream of pleasure shot up his body. “What else ya got?”

He wouldn’t have thought it possible for Saruhiko’s eyes to narrow further, but somehow they did. A beat later, he was reversing the grip of his left hand, leaning forward even further and pressing Yata’s right firmly into the mattress as he used his other hand to bend him even further over himself. “Since you asked…” Behind his glasses, his gaze was dark and heated, an edge of something wild behind it. Without waiting for Yata to do more than grunt at the abrupt shift, he pulled out, prompting a strangled gasp at the friction, and thrust deeply back into him.

_Ah, fuck…_ Yata’s fingers tightened again, and he pressed his head back hard into the mattress, eyes squeezing shut involuntarily and toes curling as mingled pain and pleasure spiraled up through his body. The slick push and pull of Saruhiko’s cock within him was incredibly erotic, an almost overwhelming blend of strange and arousing. His breath escaped him in a whine as he felt the motion repeat, the shuddering moan that Saruhiko released as he drove back in sounding out in an appealing counterpart.

Their hands were clasped tight, Saruhiko’s weight partially braced into the hold and shifting as he thrust slowly into Yata’s body. He was starting to find a rhythm, but it wasn’t a hurried one – it was like he was savoring the feel of it, even as his breathing stuttered and his eyes fluttered shut with each plunge.

It was a little too much to resist. Yata gave his cock a squeeze, stroking upward as Saruhiko slid inside him and making a low, helpless sound at the dual sensation of internal and external friction. His body shook with each wave as he began to match his pace with Saruhiko’s, the fingers of his right hand tightening compulsively in their shared hold as he worked himself over.

Even with the slow pace, it didn’t take long to reach the peak. Yata felt the telltale tension in his lower belly, the edge of mounting pleasure that signaled an immediately pending orgasm, and stiffened up, staring at Saruhiko hazily. “Saru,” he managed to grit out, back arching against the bed as the sensation rapidly rushed to a head within him, “I’m… gonna…”

Saruhiko made a raw noise, as if unable to help himself, and surged forward even more strongly, his thrusts taking on a frantic edge as he returned Yata’s gaze with desperate intensity.

That was the final push. Yata arched against the bed, crying out as pleasure pulsed through his body, cock throbbing in his hand with its release. The frenzied rhythm of Saruhiko sliding in and out of him milked his orgasm even further, drawing the shuddering ecstasy out nearly to the point of pain as he squirmed against the continued stimulation.

It only lasted a few seconds more, and then Saruhiko pushed forward harshly with a low groan and shivered against him as his dick twitched several times, spilling his release in Yata’s body.

For a moment, they held there, panting out of sync in the aftermath as they both came down.

Reality started to impose itself sluggishly, the strain in his muscles from the cramped position making itself known as the sparks cleared from his vision and his body cooled. Saruhiko shifted almost in the same moment, leaning back to carefully slide his softening cock from Yata’s ass.

Their hands were still clasped, locking his right leg up, but Yata wasn’t immediately concerned with that. As he let his other leg flop, he wiped his hand on his chest and reached up, straining to catch the back of Saruhiko’s neck and tug him back down into a clumsy kiss.

Even in post-orgasm bliss, that contact was electric. Saruhiko returned it, closed-mouthed and tired but with obvious feeling.

Yata had a grin already building on his face when they pulled back, his heart feeling full to bursting. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice soft, and drank in the blissed out and slightly dazed look in Saruhiko’s eyes shamelessly. “You know. I should tell you something…” He cleared his throat, feeling a little awkward and anxious about it, but determined to follow through with that split second decision. If he didn’t say it now when the mood was this sappy, he might never work up the nerve. “I kinda, uh. Kinda love you.”

The moment the words were out he felt the prickle of alarm building all along his skin, panic starting to seep in through the cracks in his confidence as Saruhiko blinked at him, visibly shocked. Yata opened his mouth to try and play it off, crack a joke or brush the statement aside, but then with an abrupt, shaky sigh, Saruhiko slumped forward further, letting his forehead land with a soft thud on Yata’s shoulder.

“Me too,” he mumbled, almost too quiet to be heard.

Despite the volume, the response felt like it burned itself into Yata’s soul; he let out small, quiet laugh that was more wondering than anything and shut his eyes, the smile on his face growing so wide it hurt.

This was definitely enough.


	12. Chapter 12

The marks were on the backs of their hands.

More specifically, the hands they’d been clasping as they had sex. It wasn’t until the need to sort out all the gross leftovers from the whole business became too much and they’d started to awkwardly separate that Fushimi had noticed. And Misaki had discovered it at approximately the same moment, muttering a small, “oh,” even as Fushimi stared at his own hand.

It was probably inevitable that he’d feel the pit of dread forming in his stomach, but it was still unsettling. He’d reconciled himself to the idea that they very well _could_ be soulmates, and it wasn’t as if his resolve to be with Misaki had lessened simply because it turned out to be true.

But…

A glance up revealed that Misaki had shifted back to a more comfortable position, tilting his hand slowly to different angles as he studied the mark. His eyebrows were bunched together, a tiny hint of a frown on his face as if he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

_That makes two of us, then…_

The longer the silence stretched out between them, the more reality seemed to trickle into Fushimi’s awareness. The dim yellow lighting from the lamp beside the bed set shadows in the corners of the room, giving it a less savory appearance despite the reputable nature of the place. The walls were a bland off-white, the carpet a nondescript grey, and the generic bedcover they sat on felt scratchy and cheap.

It wasn’t the best choice for a first time, maybe. That hadn’t been foremost in his mind when he’d planned this, and he was aware that Misaki wasn’t going to be particularly fussy about it. He didn’t exactly care either. But with his current mood…

Fushimi turned back toward the side of the bed, moving to sit with his feet on the floor. His back was to Misaki this way and he wasn’t sure if that might send the wrong message, but there was a giant knot of mixed feelings that had risen up within him and he wasn’t entirely sure how to go about unraveling it. The pit in his stomach felt like it was expanding out, churning unpleasantly as it threatened to consume him.

This whole business was frustrating. He’d settled it, hadn’t he? Why should it come up again?

Oddly, it helped to actually look at the mark itself. The entire back of his hand, from the knuckles to the wrist, was covered in a mass of tiny, beautifully detailed flowers, which he recognized immediately despite not having bothered with the gift Munakata had given him. Forget-me-nots and lily-of-the-valley, carefully mixed and overlapping so the white and the pale purple-blue wove into a small pool of contrasts.

If he shut his eyes, he could still see the bundles they’d exchanged as kids. The flower arrangement on that balcony, years ago. The single, squashed blossom in the tiny book he’d been given on his return.

He wasn’t sure what these flowers meant to Misaki, but for himself…

_‘The return of happiness’… right?_

At some point while he’d been lost in his thoughts, Misaki had started to shift on the bed, shuffling himself up until he could settle into place on Fushimi’s left and bumping their bare shoulders together as he did. “Hey,” he started, voice oddly subdued.

Fushimi glanced sideways at him, feeling a tiny spark as that direct gaze met his. “’Hey’?”

“Shut up, I needed an opening.” A little hint of exasperated amusement lightened up Misaki’s expression for a second, but his eyes were still serious. He took in a breath. “You’re not freaking out on me, are ya?”

Was he? Fushimi frowned a bit, trying to consider that honestly. “Not… exactly,” he responded cautiously, after a brief second. “Just thinking.”

Misaki snorted. “Right, ’cause that’s so much better.” He shook his head, a rueful grin starting on his lips. “I know what happens when you get thinking too much.” Despite the certainty in that statement, he reached up to rub at the back of his neck almost anxiously. “Actually, truth is… when I saw this” – at that, he lowered his hand to tap at his wrist – “even though I knew it didn’t matter, I couldn’t help but feel a bit happy.” He shrugged, a nervous little jerk of his shoulders. “Old habits, or whatever. So I thought if that’s what I felt, you probably felt the opposite. Y’know?”

That resonated. Fushimi stared back at him wordlessly for a moment, struck with the familiar flood of feelings from one of Misaki’s uncommon bullseye responses.

It helped. Knowing that he wasn’t alone, even if their feelings didn’t match exactly, was somehow reassuring. He wasn’t the only one struggling with this, not quite knowing what to expect or where to go next. His own helpless insecurities that he didn’t want to acknowledge were reflected back at him from Misaki’s gaze, but there was no sign of regret or reluctance to move forward. And if he searched carefully, he found that he didn’t feel those things either.

It was… encouraging. In a way.

“Heh.” Misaki’s face lightened into a wider smile. “I’m right, huh?”

Okay, that was kind of annoying. Fushimi clicked his tongue, turning his gaze aside. “Shut up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He could hear the amusement in Misaki’s tone at that, but it faded off into a kind of wistful note as he spoke again. “Y’know… Well, yeah, you probably know, but I’ll say it anyway: I can’t always be right. I fuck up a lot. Pretty sure I’m gonna do it with you, too.” When Fushimi glanced at him, he was staring forward, shoulders hunched and eyebrows bunched as he worked his with through those musings. “I’m not… I can’t be perfect. I can’t even be like I was before. A lot’s happened.” He took in a long breath, turning his gaze to meet Fushimi’s almost nervously. “I’m not... always strong.” The words were reluctant, almost grudging. “There’s some nights it just hits me all at once, and… ugh.” He blew out the rest of that breath, scowling with clear embarrassment. “And it’s frustrating, but I’m working on it, okay? I wanna be better. But right now, that’s… pretty much all I got.”

_‘All’, he says…_ As if Fushimi hadn’t already decided that he wanted everything Misaki had to offer. Maybe he hadn’t made it clear – or maybe he hadn’t even fully acknowledged it in his own head – but there was no question in his mind that he would take all of it. Misaki’s strengths, Misaki’s weaknesses. His flaws and his charms, his vulnerabilities and his unthinking loyalty, his blunt carelessness and his brash, oblivious nature… And his devastating, heart-rending honesty.

All the little things that annoyed him, all the small points and gestures that lit a fire in his soul. They were part of the same whole, and he wanted to embrace everything that was Misaki and take him in. He wanted to know the shadowed places inside Misaki; to help him navigate them during the times when he got lost. And he thought – he was sure – he wanted to let Misaki into the shadowed places inside himself too. To accept the hand that stretched out towards him, and to offer his own in return.

It was still a frightening thought, opening up that much, but he couldn’t deny the appeal. One day, he thought he could probably manage it.

_Well… One thing at a time, I guess._

Making an effort to stem the hint of a tremor in his fingers, Fushimi reached out to deliberately take hold of Misaki’s right hand, raising it enough so that he could bend and press his lips to the center of the mark that mirrored his own. He let the touch linger, lifting his gaze to take in Misaki’s startled face. “I’m fine with this,” he mumbled, lips brushing the skin beneath, “if you are.”

It took a moment for that to sink in, but when it did, Misaki’s eyelids lowered halfway, mouth spreading in a wide, promising smile. The affection and relief in his gaze took Fushimi’s breath away. “You know it!”

_“I kinda love you.”_

There was still anxiety within him – uncertainty and wariness and maybe a bit of fear – but that pit of dread in his stomach had gone. Fushimi smiled back, not helplessly but consciously, and allowed himself the moment of happiness.

For now, this was enough – and they could work together on the rest.

 

* * *

 

 

It was late the next morning when Yata made it to Bar Homra. He and Saruhiko had said their goodbyes early – because of work, as usual – but he’d taken the time to go home and get a change of clothing. It would’ve been weird to show up at Homra in a rented suit. Plus, if he showed up in the same thing he’d worn the night before, it was sorta… well…

Okay, everyone was gonna know what happened anyway, but still!

He felt kinda weird – different, in a way. Not just because of the brand new mark on his right hand, but it was like the experience had changed him. The way most people talked about sex, it was pretty casual – transactional, even, like the act itself was no big deal – but what happened between the two of them somehow… felt bigger.

_Well, we are kinda dating now, I guess._ The thought brought a grin to his lips, a little well of excitement building within him. They’d made it official before even going to sleep, because he’d wanted to hear it clearly. He was dating Saruhiko.

Maybe that was the big difference.

Yata slowed his skateboard as he approached the familiar building, kicking it up and hefting it easily in his left hand. He reached up to adjust his hat against the glare from the sun, hesitating for a moment as he stood in front of the door.

_Gonna have to tell ’em sooner or later._ It wasn’t like he could hide it with his hand covered in flowers.

A quick glance down at the mark was enough to steady him – honestly, even if he wasn’t putting a lot of stock in soulmates any more, he got a little guilty pleasure out of the fact that they _did_ have matching marks again. It felt kinda like they were connected, though probably the sex had a lot to do with that. And washing up together. And sleeping in the same bed. And kissing each other goodbye. And… well… okay, dating in general kind of did it. He was _happy_. And even knowing it was illogical, it felt like the mark was a visible reminder of that bond. It just… helped to look at something that really felt like it reflected back his feelings. Plus, he had good memories associated with those flowers. They’d even helped him figure some stuff out.

So yeah. It was cool.

Squaring his shoulders and drawing up his determination, Yata reached out to pull the door open and step inside. “Yo!”

“Yata-san!” Kamamoto greeted him heartily from a stool at the bar. “Where’d you get off to last night? I was looking around for a while, y’know.”

“Right, sorry.” Yata shrugged, offering a sheepish grin, and glanced around the room. “I kinda got busy with something.”

It was unexpectedly busy inside – well, relatively so, anyway. Fujishima and Eric sat on the couch, a card game of some sort spread out on the coffee table in front of them and Anna hovering over it with interest. Chitose was huddled at a table, nursing a drink – hung over, probably – with an unsympathetic Dewa focused on his PDA in the chair across from him. Bandou and Akagi sat together at the bar, on the opposite side from Kamamoto.

_Whoa… everyone’s here today?_ That was rare…

Kusanagi offered him a smile from behind the bar when his sweeping gaze got to that point. “Nothing troublesome, I hope.” He looked like he was about to say more, but then blinked, looking mildly startled. “Ah…”

He’d noticed, right? Yata reached up to scratch at the back of his neck, feeling the weight of eyes on him as he started to gather the attention of the others in response to that reaction. “Heh… uh…” He lowered the hand again, hunching sheepishly as he held it out. “About this… I mean, well… obviously, right? Hah…”

There was a stark moment of silence in the room as he tried to find the right words.

“Misaki.” Anna’s voice cut into his thoughts abruptly. When he glanced over, startled, he found she’d crossed the room to him sometime while he was fumbling with it, and was giving him an expectant look. “Can I see?”

“Uh. Yeah. I guess.” It wasn’t like he could refuse her anything, even if she wasn’t technically his King any more. Yata felt his cheeks grow warm all the same, holding out his right hand somewhat awkwardly. “Go ahead.”

She took it, bending her head for a better look. Her expression was intent as she studied it, and after a second or two of what felt like tense silence, she extended one small finger to brush lightly along the lines of a petal, a tiny smile building on her lips. “Pretty…”

_Not sure if I wanna hear that as a guy…_ If anything, the rush of uncomfortable warmth rising up his neck got worse. Yata coughed lightly, but didn’t end up having the chance to respond.

“Congrats, Yata-san!” Kamamoto finally shattered the silence around them, jumping up off his stool to stride over and pound him heartily on the back, a broad grin on his face. “That’s great news!”

“Heh.” Chitose had looked up from his drink, a weary but knowing smirk on his face. “So that’s what you meant by ‘got busy’, huh?”

Yata sputtered at that, floundering indignantly for a response. _Fuck… I mean, he’s not wrong…_

“Seriously?” Bandou squawked, sounding indignant. “ _Yata_ found someone before I did? What the hell?”

“San-chan… if you say it like that…”

“Congratulations, Yata-san!”

“Yeah, congrats. Or something.”

“Good for you!”

The sudden influx of comments was almost overwhelming – in a good way. Yata recovered enough to grin back, his earlier embarrassment melting in the face of that familiar sense of comfort at the good will around him. As he was basking in the claps on the back and the enthusiastic words, he somehow caught Kusanagi’s eye from where he’d stayed behind the bar.

His older friend shot him a smile, eyes knowing. “Congratulations,” he offered, in a normal tone that still somehow carried over the ruckus. “Been a long time coming, huh?”

_Shoulda figured he’d know._ Yata ducked his head, grin turning rueful. “Yeah.” He felt a little sheepish at being seen through, but it wasn’t bad. In a sense, he welcomed it – that someone who knew about him and Saruhiko would wish him well with full sincerity. It was pretty gratifying. “Thanks.”

Given how things had worked out, he couldn’t say he regretted the ‘long time’ part at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Fushimi couldn’t say he wasn’t tempted to find himself a pair of gloves before he went into work that morning. The potential inconvenience and the awkward prospect of having to come up with some way to avoid explaining himself had outweighed the potential benefits, but he’d still seriously considered it just to avoid the annoyance that was likely to follow.

Really, it would have been a lot less of a hassle if their marks had been in an easily concealed spot. On his back would have been convenient. Or even his elbow, or on the shoulder. Hands were just too noticeable.

_At least it’s not on my face…_ Even if there were no bad memories associated with that, it would’ve just been _too_ obvious.

It wasn’t like he was ashamed to be dating Misaki. More like the opposite, really – it was hard to believe that was actually where they were now, after everything. Hard to believe that they’d spent an entire night together after having sex, talking about small things in a shared bed until they’d fallen asleep, and then kissed each other goodbye in the morning. The connection between them was unquestionably real, and he still felt that tiny stirring of wonder and cautious happiness when he thought about it. He didn’t mind if everyone knew – at the very least, there’d be no confusion. But at the same time, he didn’t enjoy the attention that was likely to come with the display of a _soulmate mark_ , of all things. That kind of thing really was his own personal business, and not anyone else’s.

_Not that this stupid soulmate system cares about things like privacy, huh?_

Regardless, trying to hide it was just going to prolong the inevitable. Fushimi frowned to himself, forcing his pace to remain steady as he headed for the workroom. If he didn’t go out of his way to draw attention to it, maybe his co-workers would take the hint and not bring it up.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he was aware that it was an unlikely prospect. Fushimi clicked his tongue, reaching for the door handle. _Might as well get this over with._

As luck would have it, only Enomoto, Kamo, and Fuse were in the room when he entered, all bent over their various workstations. Fushimi breathed out slowly, exchanged brief, polite greetings, and sank down at his own machine to check the status of his recent work. He was probably going to be out in the field again, considering how many strains were still either in hiding or waiting to be rehabilitated.

If he was lucky, it’d be by himself. Less stupid questions that way.

The reprieve was short-lived; he’d only just settled in his seat and unlocked his workstation when the door to the room opened and the remaining five members of the Special Operations Unit swarmed into the room, raising the noise level by a multiple of about one hundred.

“Man, why’d we have to be at work so early after a party, huh?” Domyoji complained.

Hidaka huffed a brief laugh. “At least we all got time off to _go_ to the party – that’s kind of amazing with everything going on, don’t you think?”

“Akiyama and Benzai even had to leave early,” Goto put in, mildly. “Did you guys actually sleep?”

“A little,” Akiyama responded ruefully.

“I could go for more.” Benzai’s voice was dry.

“Yeah, I’ll bet!”

_Noisy._ Fushimi kept his eyes on the monitor, trying to drown out the rest of that inane babble. Learning to care about these idiots did not include automatically being more interested in random conversation, as it turned out. He liked them well enough – when they weren’t going out of their way to annoy him – but he still had no tolerance for time-wasting.

“Oh – Fushimi-san.” Akiyama approached him; when he glanced up, he got a small polite smile. “I was wondering if you could pull up the – ” He stopped. Blinked. And then utterly an uncharacteristically unprofessional, “Ah.”

There it was. Fushimi clicked his tongue, frowning back. “If you have something to ask, go ahead.”

“Eh – no. Sorry.” At once, Akiyama seemed to recover himself, though he looked a little bemused. “I suppose congratulations are in order?”

Wonderful. “Don’t bother.”

“Congratulations for what?” Hidaka shifted in to peer curiously over Akiyama’s shoulder, and abruptly did a double-take. “W-Whoa, Fushimi-san! Is that a – ?”

“Let me see!” Domyoji imposed himself in front of them, leaning in. “Oh – hey, a soulmate mark! Congrats! I’m jealous, Fushimi-san!”

That seemed enough to set off the floodgates.

“Fushimi-san has a soulmate mark?”

“Wait – you mean… _our_ Fushimi-san?”

“You know another one?”

“Ah… no, but…”

“Congratulations, Fushimi-san! That’s great!”

“Seriously, _who?_ ”

“Shh!”

“What’s going on in here?” Awashima’s stern voice cut through the babbling voices. When Fushimi glanced over, she was standing at the entrance, hands on her hips and expression critical. Munakata stood directly behind her, straight-backed and unconcerned as always, eyeing them all with what appeared to be great amusement.

_Just my luck, I suppose…_ Fushimi clicked his tongue again. At least the interruption seemed to have stopped people from congratulating him. “Just a bunch of people unable to mind their own business.”

Awashima shot him something of an exasperated look. “That’s not exactly what I – ” Her eyes seemed to catch on his hand then, and he could see them widen slightly. Her tone, when she spoke again, was stunned. “Fushimi… That’s…”

“My, my.” Munakata tilted his head, smiling placidly as he met Fushimi’s flat stare. “It appears that congratulations are indeed in order.” His gaze was knowing. “However, we must not let such matters interfere with our daily tasks. Wouldn’t you agree, Awashima-kun?”

She straightened. “Yes, sir!” Facing the rest of them, she ordered, “You heard the Captain – carry on with your work.”

“Yes ma’am!” was chorused across the room, and that was that.

Well, mostly. As she strode forward, Awashima paused at Fushimi’s desk just long enough to let her expression soften into a small smile. “Congratulations,” she told him in a warmer undertone, and then straightened and carried on. “Enomoto – I’ll need those files I messaged you about.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I’ve got them!”

As everyone shuffled around to start or continue their work days, a light touch on Fushimi’s shoulder caught his attention again. He looked up to meet his boss’s calm gaze with some surprise. “Captain?”

“A lovely bouquet, Fushimi-kun,” Munakata told him quietly, something a little less amused or interested in his eyes. It felt more like he was delivering a personal exchange than anything. “Be sure to treat it with utmost care.”

_Care._ Just like all of these well-meaning busybodies around him. Fushimi couldn’t help the small, rueful smile that tugged at his lips, but it didn’t matter. Even through the annoyance, he couldn’t help but continue to do that, could he? All of these idiots were the people he cared about, after all, and he’d look after them even when it was a pain.

And Misaki, of course, was no different. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

He was going to do his best this time, and leave no room for the bigger regrets.

 

* * *

 

 

It was well past dark when the gate leading in to Scepter 4 headquarters creaked open, allowing a bespectacled young man in uniform to step through. His shoulders were slightly hunched and his glasses wide-brimmed in an unfashionable style. “You didn’t have to come get me,” he drawled.

Waiting in the shadows for him was another young man, slight and athletic, with a skateboard tucked under one arm. “What, not happy to see me?” he scoffed. “You don’t even know the way to my place, remember?”

“GPS is a thing, Misaki,” the first man said, halting a short ways from the second and reaching up to adjust his glasses. “Anyway, I can follow directions fine.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The second man half-turned, taking a step in the opposite direction and waiting for his fellow to fall in step beside him before continuing. “Let’s get going already. It’s late.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Do you seriously have to make a smartass comment about everything?”

“Maybe…”

The street was empty, the lightning poor as they stepped across the boundary that marked the edge of Scepter 4’s grounds – as the two men walked along next to each other, bantering lightly, their shoulders were close and their hands brushed frequently. The first man’s left and the second man’s right.

Invisible to the casual observer, the marks on those hands could’ve blended together into a single bouquet: imperfect and flawed, but unquestionably beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of you guessed correctly about the marks - good job! ;)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kept up with this fic as I was posting it! I appreciate all of your comments and encouragement so much - it really makes the effort of writing this fic worth it. Please let me know what you think of the fic as a whole if you get a chance!


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